The Project Gutenberg eBook of Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. III This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Parodies of the works of English & American authors, vol. III Compiler: Walter Hamilton Release date: April 14, 2023 [eBook #70545] Language: English Original publication: United Kingdom: Reeves & Turner, 1886 Credits: Carol Brown, Chris Curnow and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARODIES OF THE WORKS OF ENGLISH & AMERICAN AUTHORS, VOL. III *** PARODIES OF THE WORKS OF ENGLISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS, COLLECTED AND ANNOTATED BY WALTER HAMILTON, _Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies; Author of “A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs,” “A Memoir of George Cruikshank,” “The Poets Laureate of England,” “The Æsthetic Movement in England,” etc._ ―――― “We maintain that, far from converting virtue into a paradox, and degrading truth by ridicule, PARODY will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition. What do we parody but the absurdities of writers, who frequently; make their heroes act against nature, common-sense, and truth? After all, it is the public, not we, who are the authors of these PARODIES. D’ISRAELI’S Curiosities of Literature. ―――― VOLUME III. CONTAINING PARODIES OF LORD BYRON. SCOTCH SONGS. SIR WALTER SCOTT. ROBERT SOUTHEY. CHARLES KINGSLEY. THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE POETRY OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN. MISS C. FANSHAWE. THOMAS MOORE. A. C. SWINBURNE. ROBERT BURNS. MRS. FELICIA HEMANS. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ―――― REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C. 1886. _All these things here collected are not mine, But divers grapes make but one kind of wine; So I from many learned authors took The various matters written in this book; What’s not mine own shall not by me be fathered, The most part I, in many years, have gathered._ JOHN TAYLOR, the Water Poet. “_It was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible of the playful honours of the Greek parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to us, a parody is nothing._” ISAAC D’ISRAELI. BROWN & DAVENPORT, 40, SUN STREET, FINSBURY, LONDON, E.C. INDEX. ――- The authors of the original poems are arranged in alphabetical order; the titles of the original poems are printed in small capitals, followed by the Parodies, the authors of which are named, in italics, wherever possible. ―――― A Chapter on Parodies By Isaac D’Israeli 1 ―――― The Poetry of the “Anti-Jacobin.” A List of Parodies contained in “The Anti-Jacobin” 181 La Sainte Guillotine, Song; The Progress of Man, after Mr. R. Payne Knight; Chevy Chase; The Loves of the Triangles, after Dr. Darwin; Brissot’s Ghost, after Glover’s Ballad; Ode to Jacobinism, after Gray’s Hymn to Adversity; The Jacobin, after Southey’s Sapphics; Ode to a Jacobin, after Suckling. THE ROVERS ―― George Canning 181 The University of Gottingen 182 A New Gottingen Ballad, Morning Herald, 1802 182 The Constitutional Association, _William Hone_ 183 The University we’ve got in town, _R. H. Barham_ 183 The Universal Penny Postage, 1840 184 The Humorous M.P. for Nottingham, Fun, 1867 185 The Union Oxoniensis, the Shotover Papers 185 The Oxford Installation Ode, Diogenes, 1853 186 The Universal Prayer of Paddington, Punch, 1882 186 The University at Nottingham, Punch 1882 186 The Hor-Ticultural Society (Cambridge, 1830) 280 ―――― Robert Burns. BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY ―― “Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.” 1793 48 “Gulls who’ve heard what Hobhouse said” 49 “Britons who have often bled!” 49 “Folks who’ve oft at Dolby’s fed!” The Fancy 49 “Whigs! who have with Michael dined!” 49 “Whigs whom Fox and Petty led,” John Bull, 1823 49 “Scots, wha hae the duties paid,” _Robert Gilfillan_ 50 “Cooks, who’d roast a sucking-pig,” Punch 50 “Bunn! wha hae wi’ Wallace sped,” The Man in the Moon 50 “Jews ―― as every one has read,” The Puppet Show, 1848 51 “Guards! who at Smolensko fled,” _W. E. Aytoun_ 51 “Britons! at your country’s call” 51 Wing-Kee-Fum’s address to the Patriot Army, Diogenes, 1853 51 “Travellers, who’ve so oft been bled,” Diogenes 52 “Ye, whose chins have often bled,” Diogenes 52 “Serfs, wha hae wi’ Kut’soff bled!” Diogenes 52 “A’ wha hae wi’ Russell sped,” _W. Lothian_ 52 “Scots! wha are on oatmeal fed,” They are Five, 53 “Scott, wha ha’ your Jumbo fed,” Punch, 1882, 53 “Friends, by Whig retrenchment bled,” Poetry for the Poor, 1884 53 “Men by wise example led,” Songs for Liberal Electors, 1885 53 “Scots! although in New York bred,” Funny Folks, 1877 67 “Scots, wha won’t for Wallace bleed,” _Shirley Brooks_, 1865 107 ADDRESS TO THE DE’IL―― Address to the G. O. M., Moonshine, 1885 106 JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO 54 “Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,” _John Jones_, 1831 54 “George Anderson, my Geo., George,” Punch 55 “My bonny Meg, my Jo, Meg” 55 “When Nature first began, Jean” 55 “Joe Chamberlain, my Jo, John,” Punch, 1886 55 “John Alcohol, my foe, John,” Home Tidings 107 “Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,” Punch, 1885 56-69 “John Barleycorn, my foe, John,” _Charles F. Adams_ 69 “Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,” Funny Folks, 1885 69 “Ted Henderson, my Jo, Ted,” Moonshine, 1886 108 FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT 56 Quoi! Pauvre honnête, baisser la tête, _Father Prout_ 56 “A man’s a man,” says Robert Burns 57 “Dear Freedom! sair they’ve lightlied thee” The Wreath of Freedom. 1820 57 “Success to honest usury.” Diogenes, 1853 57 “More luck to honest poverty,” _Shirley Brooks_ 106 “Is there a lady in all the land?” Once a Week 57 “Is there a Jingo, proud and high?” Punch, 1878 58 “Is there, for princely opulence?” Fun, 1879 58 “Is there, for double U. E. G.?” Funny Folks 58 Sir Arthur Guinness and a Peerage 58 “Is there for Whig and Tory men?” _John Stuart Blackie_, Alma Mater, 1885 59 Political Parody in Funny Folks, March 14, 1885 67 A new song to an old tune, _Sir Walter Scott_, 1814 67 To Women of the Period 67 COMING THROUGH THE RYE 59 “Tak cauler water I” 59 “Gin’ a nursey meet a bobby,” Judy, 1879 60 Parody in Funny Folks, 1879 66 “If a Proctor meet a body,” Lays of Modern Oxford. 1874 106 DUNCAN GRAY 60 “Oor Tam has joined the Templars noo.” Rev. R. S. Bowie 108 “Sam Sumph cam’ here for Greek” _John Stuart Blackie_, Alma Mater, 1885 60 The Whigs of Auld Lang Syne, Punch, 1865 61 Sir M. Hicks Beach on Auld Acquaintance, Truth 61 “We twa hae dune a little Bill,” Punch, 1848 66 Paraphrase of Auld Lang Syne, Comic Offering 66 Should Gaelic speech be e’er forgot? 107 GREEN GROW THE RASHES 61 Life in Malvern. Malvern Punch, 1865 61 “Hey, for Social Science, O!” _Lord Neaves_ 61 “There’s nought but talk on every han’,” Punch 109 Holy Willie’s Prayer, Newcastle Weekly Chronicle 62 The Fishers’ Welcome, _Doubleday_. “We twa ha’ fished the Kale sae clear” 63 To Burns, _Joseph Blacket_, 1811 64 TAM O’ SHANTER―― Origin of the Poem 64 The Political Tam o’ Shanter, Punch, 1884 65 “HERE’S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT’S AWA’ 66 “Here’s a health to the ladies at home,” The Mirror, 1828 66 “Willie Brew’d a Peck of Maut,” Punch, 1884 66 “Thus Willie, Rab, and Allan sang” 107 “O, never touch the drunkard’s cup” 108 The Ballad of Sir Tea-Leaf, Punch, 1851 68 MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS 68 “My harts in the Highlands,” Punch, 1856 68 “O, whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad” 68 “Lilt your Johnnie”――A nonsense Parody, George Cruikshank’s Almanac, 1846 69 Justice to Scotland――A nonsense Parody, _Shirley Brooks_ 70 “Greet na mair, ma sonsie lassie,” a Nonsense Parody. Judy, 1884 70 A history of the Burns Festival at the Crystal Palace, January 25, 1859 70 Prize Poem in honour of Burns, _Isa Craig_ 70 Rival Rhymes in honour of Burns, _Samuel Lover_ 70 Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie 70 Poems on Burns, _William Cadenhead_, 1885 71 ―――― Lord Byron. THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE 190 The Maiden I love, P. F. T., 190 WELL! THOU ART HAPPY 190 To Mary. _Phœbe Carey’s_ Poems and Parodies, 1854 191 MAID OF ATHENS, 1810 191 Anticipation in “The Monthly Mirror,” 1799. “I conjure thee to love me, Sophia” 191 Polka mou sas Agapo, Punch, 1844 191 Pay, oh! Pay us what you owe, Punch, 1847 192 Man of Mammon, e’er we part 192 People’s William! do not start, Truth, 1877 193 Maid of Athens! ere we start, Punch, 1878 193 Maid of Clapham! ere I part, Jon Duan 193 Made of Something! ere we part, Free Press Flashes, 1882 193 Made of Something! (Zoedone) Punch, 1880 194 Calf’s Heart, “Maid of all work, as a part,” 194 Madame Rachel! ere we smash, Judy, 1868 194 Unkind Missis! e’er the day, Grins and Groans 194 Maid of Ganges! thou that art, The Etonian, 1884 195 Maid of all work! we must part 195 Joe, my Joseph! ere we part, St. James’s Gazette 195 I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. 195 The old Fogey’s Lament, Funny Folks 196 NAPOLEON’S FAREWELL 196 The Bohemian’s Farewell, Worthy a Crown? 1876 196 The spell is broken, Judy 1880 196 War Song of the Radical Philhellene, The Saturday Review, 1886 197 ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H. (Ascribed to Byron.) “’Twas whispered in Heaven” 197 “I dwells in the Herth,” _Henry Mayhew_ 197 The Letter H. his petition, and a reply 197 The Petition of the Letter W. to Londoners, and a reply, 198 A Riddle on the letter U 278 LORD BYRON’S ADDRESS, spoken at the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, October, 1812 198 Cui Bono? from the Rejected Addresses, _H. and J. Smith_ 199 The Genuine Rejected Addresses 201 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 201 The Destruction of the Aldermen, Punch, 1841 201 Sir Robert came down on the Corn Laws so bold, 201 The Russian came down like a thief in the night, 202 The Blizzard came down like a thousand of brick, 202 The Belgravians came down on the Queen in her hold, Jon Duan 202 Miss Pussy jumped down, _Don Diego_ 202 The Diplomats came like a wolf on the fold, Truth 203 The Yankee came down with long Fred on his back, Punch, 1881 203 All the papers came down (on melting the Statue of the Duke of Wellington), Truth 203 The Tories came forth in their pride, _Alick Sinclair_, The Weekly Dispatch, 1884 203 The Premier came down to the House as of old, _C. Renz_, The Weekly Dispatch. 1886 203 Great Gladstone came down his new Bill to unfold, _F. B. Doveton_, 1886 204 “Dan O’Connell came down,” The Spirit of the Age Newspaper, 1828 209 Belasco came down like a bruiser so bold 279 TO THOMAS MOORE―― “My boat is on the Shore” 208 “My cab is at the door.” The National Omnibus 208 “My cab is at the door,” Punch, 1846 208 “My boat has run ashore,” Punch, 1875 208 A Farewell to Jenny Lind, Punch, 1848 210 CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE―― “Adieu, adieu! my native shore” 209 “Adieu, adieu! place once so sure,” 209 “Adoo! adoo! my fav’rite scheme,” Punch, 1846 209 There was a sound of revelry by night 209 There was a sound that ceased not (on the Railway Panic), Our Iron Roads, _F. S. Williams_ 210 Waterloo at Astley’s Theatre, Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack, 1846 210 The Battle of the Opera, Punch 1849 210 There was a sound of orat’ry by night 210 There was a clash of Billiard balls, _A. H. Smith_ 211 Stop; for your tread is on a Poet’s dust! (on Henry Irving as Othello), Figaro, 1876 211 London’s Inferno, Truth, 1884 212 Childe Snobson’s Pilgrimage, Punch, 1842 212 Childe Chappie’s Pilgrimage, by _E. J. Milliken_ 212 DARKNESS―― “I had a dream, which was not all a dream” 204 “I had a hat――it was not all a hat” 204 “I had a dream” (On Smoking) The Spirit of the Age, 1828 204 ’TIS TIME THIS HEART SHOULD BE UNMOVED 205 ’Tis time that I should be removed, Punch’s Pocket Book, 1856 205 Lord Byron’s Marriage 205 FARE THEE WELL! Yes, farewell; farewell for ever 206 And fare _Thee_ well, too――if, for ever 207 Fare thee well! Lyrics and Lays, 1867 207 Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Article on Byron 207 The Un-true Story, dedicated to Mrs. Stowe “Know ye the land where the Novelists _blurt_ all,” _Walter Parke_, Punch and Judy, 1870 208 To Inez. “Nay, smile not at my garments now,” _Phœbe Carey_ 213 “I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs” 213 Venice Unpreserved, Punch, 1851 214 Practical Venice, Punch, 1882 214 “Roll on thou drunk and dark blue peeler” 214 There is pleasure in a cask of wood, _Hugh Cayley_ 214 Arcades Ambo, _C. S. Calverley_, Fly Leaves, 1878 214 Beer, _C. S. Calverley_ 215 The Guerilla, _James Hogg_, The Poetic Mirror 215 The Last Canto of Childe Harold 215 THE GIAOUR―― “He who hath bent him o’er the dead” 215 “He that hath gazed upon this head,” The Gownsman, 1830 216 “He that hath bent him o’er a goose,” The Gossip, 1821 216 “He who hath bent him o’er the bed,” Beauty and the Beast, 1843 216 “He that don’t always bend his head, Punch, 1847 216 “He who hath looked with aching head” 216 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS―― Know ye the Land? 217 Know’st thou the land? _Thomas Carlyle_ 217 Know ye the land where the leaf of the myrtle? 217 Know ye the town of the turkey and turtle? 217 Know ye the house in which Vestris and Nisbett? 217 Know’st thou the land where the kangaroos bound? 217 Know ye the house where the Whigs and the Tories? Punch 1842 217 Where ye the scene where the clerks and the tailors? Punch, 1844 218 Know ye the loss of the beautiful turtles? 218 Know ye the land where the hot toast and muffin? 218 Know ye the town where policemen and navvies? 218 Know ye the stream where the cesspool and sewer? 218 Know’st thou the spot where the venison and turtle? Diogenes, 1853 218 Know ye the Inn where the laurel and Myrtle? 219 Know’st thou the land (of Greece)? _Shirley Brooks_, 1854 219 Know you the lady who does’nt like turtle? _Shirley Brooks_, 1856 219 Know ye the land of molasses and rum? 219 Know ye the Hall where the birch and the myrtle? 220 O, know you the land where the cheese tree grows? 220 Know’st thou the land where the hardy green thistle? An Address to Lord Byron 220 Know ye the land where the novelists blurt all? _Walter Parke_ 1870 208 Know ye the place where they press and they hurtle? Jon Duan, 1874 220 Is it where the cabbage grows so fast? 221 Know ye the land of reeds and of rushes? 221 They stood upon his nose’s bridge of size. Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874 221 PRISONER OF CHILLON.――Snowed up 228 SUBLIME TOBACCO! which from East to West 279 Sublime Potatoes; that from Antrim’s shore 279 Cabul, September, 1879. In imitation of the Siege of Corinth. The World, 1879 221 The Civic Mazeppa, Punch, 1844 221 Mazeppa Travestied. 1820 279 DON JUAN―― “Bob Southey! you’re a poet” 222 “Ben Dizzy! you’re a humbug,” Jon Duan 222 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece 222 The Isle of Eels! the Isle of Eels, Punch, 1844 223 The Smiles of Peace, _Shirley Brooks_, 1856 223 The Wines of Greece, Punch, 1865 224 The Ills of Greece Punch, 1879 224 The Claims of Greece, _G. A. Sala_ 224 The aisles of Rome, Jon Duan, 1874 224 The Isles decrease, Faust and Phisto, 1876 225 The Claims of Greece, Punch, 1881 225 The Town of Nice, _Herman Merivale_, 1883 225 The Smiles of Peace, Funny Folks, 1885 225 The Liberal Seats, Pall Mall Gazette, 1886 226 The Fields of Tothill; a Fragment 49 The Childe’s Pilgrimage, _W. F. Deacon_ 226 “Without one lingering look he leaves,” Lays of Modern Oxford. 1874 227 Miscellaneous Parodies of Lord Byron’s Poems 228 Don Juan Unread (1819), _Dr. W. Maginn_ 229 (A Parody of Wordsworth’s “Yarrow Unvisited”) ―――― Thomas Campbell. LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER 21 Sir Robert’s Bill. Protectionist Parodies 21 John Thompson’s Daughter, _Phœbe Carey_, 1854 22 Lambeth Ferry 22 The New Lord Ullin’s Daughter 23 “In London when the funds are low,” Coronation Lays, 1831 113 “To London ’ere the sun is low,” _Hyde Parker_ 112 HOHENLINDEN 23 Bannockburn, _Archie Aliquis_, 1825 23 The Battle of Peas-Hill, from The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, 1824 23 Jenny-Linden, Punch, 1847 23 The Bal-Masqué at Crockford’s――The Man in the Moon 25 Row-in-London, The Puppet Show, 1848 25 The Battle of the Boulevard, _W. E. Aytoun_ 25 Hohen-London, Punch, 1851 26 Swindon Station 26 Hotel Swindling, Diogenes, 1853 26 The Battle of Bull-Run 27 “At Seacliff, when the time passed slow,” College Rhymes, 1861, _L. E. S_ 27 “At Belton, ere the twilight grew” 27 “At Oxford when my funds were low,” Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874 27 At Prince’s when the sun is low, 1876 28 The Tay Bridge Disaster, _F. B. Doveton_, 1880 28 “In Erin where the Praties grow,” _J. M. Lowry_ 28 Hohenlinden, Latin translations of 28 The Tay Bridge Disaster, _J. F. Baird_ 43 ” ” ” ” _L. Beck_ 43 The Lawn Tennis Match, _F. B. Doveton_ 47 THE SOLDIER’S DREAM 29 “We were wet as the deuce,” Punch 1853 29 The Boat Race: “We had stripped off our coats,” Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874 29 The Tory Premier’s Dream, Funny Folks, 1880 29 The Fatal Gallopade, The Comic Magazine, 1834 30 LOCHIEL’S WARNING 30 1879, its glory and its shame. Prize Poem. The World. 1880, _Goymour Cuthbert_ “Old year, old year, I’m glad of the day” 30 “Chieftain, O, Chieftain, lament for the year” 31 “Old women! old women! prepare for the day,” _J. H. Wheeler_ 31 “O, Cecil! O, Cecil! beware of the day,” _James Robinson_ 31 “O, Salisbury, Salisbury, beware of the day,” _Albert Otley_ 32 “O, Tories! O, Tories! beware of the day” 32 The Student’s Warning, 1838 45 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 32 Ye Kite-flyers of Scotland, _Thomas Love Peacock_ 32 Young gentlemen of England, Punch, 1844 33 Ye Peasantry of England, Punch, 1845 33 Ye Constables of London, Puppet Show, 1848 34 Ye Ship builders of England, Punch, 1849 34 Ye Subalterns in England Punch, 1854 34 Ye Clergymen of England, Punch, 1856 35 March, March, Make-rags of Borrowdale, _T. L. Peacock_ 33 You rustic maids of England, Punch, 1857 35 Ye Commoners of England, Echoes from the Clubs, 1867 35 You sneaking Skunks of England, Lyrics and Lays, 1867 35 Ye Gentlemen of Ireland, Punch, 1870 36 Ye Scavengers of England, Punch, 1880 36 Ye Milliners of England, _Hugh Cayley_, 1883 36 Ye Mariners of England (Torpedo Terrors) 37 Ye Infantry of England, Punch 37 Ye Gentlemen of England, Truth, 1884 37 Ye Mariners of England (and Mr. J. Chamberlain) Funny Folks, 1884 38 ” ” ” ” Punch 1884 38 ” ” ” ” Globe, 1885 39 Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem, 1884 39 Ye Gentlemen of England (Cricket Match) 39 Ye Shopkeepers of London, Truth, 1884 40 Ye Ministers of England, Truth, 1879 40 You faithful Muggletonians, 40 Ye Mariners of England (on Chinese Sailors) 47 THE MAID’S REMONSTRANCE―― The Bench of Bishops. _James Turner_ 40 Randolph’s Remonstrance to Sir Stafford. _H. L. Brickel_ 40 Britannia’s Remonstrance. _J. A. Elliott_ 40 Staffy’s Remonstrance. _Gossamer_ 41 THE EXILE OF ERIN 41 Parody from Figaro in London, May, 1833 41 Mitchell in Norfolk Island, The Puppet Show, 1848 42 The Ex-premier’s Visit to Erin, 1877 42 Ireland’s Distress, _Captain Walford_ 42 ” ” _Miss E. Chamberlayne_ 42 The Sorrows of Ireland. Rejected Odes, 181 47 Ye Mariners of England (as sung by Lord Ellenborough), Punch, 1846 110 You Managers of Railways, Punch, 1847 110 Ye Husbandmen of Scotland 110 Ye Liberals of England, Funny Folks, 1880 111 “There came to the beach a poor landlord of Erin,” _M. O’Brien_. The Irish Fireside, 1886 111 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 43 Battle of the Balls. The University Snowdrop. 44 Stanzas on a Late Battle ” ” 45 The Burning of the Play House (Covent Garden.) _Shirley Brooks_ 45 “Of Scotia and the North.” Rival Rhymes, 1859 47 The Escape of the Aldermen. Punch, 1845 111 THE LAST MAN―― The Last Growler. Punch, 1885 46 The Last Duke. Punch, 1846 109 The Last Man in Town. Funny Folks, 1878 109 The Massacre of Glenho. Puck on Pegasus 46 THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. 47 Campbell, undone and outdone. _Joseph G. Dalton_ 47 Portrait of Campbell. Maclise Portrait Gallery 47 Lines on Campbell. _Dr. W. Maginn_ 47 ―――― Miss Catherine Fanshawe. THE ENIGMA ON THE LETTER H 197 A Parody on the above――Henry Mayhew 197 The Letter H’s Petition and a Reply 197 Petition of the letter W, and reply 198 An Enigma on the letter U. The Gownsman, 1830 278 ―――― Dr. Oliver Goldsmith. WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY 3 “Lorsqu’une femme,” _Ségur_ 3 “When woman,” as Goldsmith declares, _Barham_ 3 When Harry Brougham turns a Tory. Punch, 1844 3 When lovely woman wants a favour. _Phœbe Carey_ 3 When lovely woman, prone to folly. Punch, 1854 3 When lovely woman stoops. Diogenes, 1853 4 When lovely woman, hooped in folly. Punch, 1857 4 When lovely woman, lump of folly. _S. Brooks_ 4 When managers have stooped to folly. Fun, 1866 4 When lovely woman takes to lollies. Grasshopper. 4 When lovely woman, still a maiden. Kottabos. 4 When lovely woman stoops to fashion. 4 When lovely woman takes to rinking 4 When lovely woman reads _Le Follet_. Figaro, 1873 4 When foolish man consents to marry 4 When lovely woman, once so jolly 5 When lovely woman finds that breaches 5 When lovely woman’s melancholy. Fun, 1885 5 When lovely woman longs to marry 5 When stupid Odger stoops to folly. Judy 5 When foolish woman stoops to fashion. 1882 5 When man, less faithful than the colley. Judy. 5 If lovely woman seeks to enter. Gossip, 1885 5 When lovely woman pines in folly――1885 5 When lovely woman stoops to Foli 5 When a grave Speaker stoops to folly 17 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG 6 AN ELEGY ON MRS. MARY BLAIZE 6 Le Fameux la Galisse, by Gilles de Ménage, 1729 6 The Happy Man. The Mirror, 1823 8 Le Chanson de La Palice, by Bernard de la Monnoye 8 John Smith, he was a guardsman bold. The Comic Magazine, 1834 9 There was a man, so legends say. _Tom Hood_ 10 An Elegy on Mrs. Grimes. The Century Magazine 10 DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BED CHAMBER 10 The Street Artist. The Month, 1851 10 THE DESERTED VILLAGE 10 The Doomed Village 10 The Deserted Village (London). The Tomahawk 11 London in September. _Lord John Russell_ 12 Innovation. _Anthony Pasquin_. 1786 18 The Frequented Village. _E. Young_ 19 The Deserted School. _James E. Thompson_, 1885 19 THE HERMIT 12 “Gentle Herdsman tell to me” 12 The Friar of Orders Gray 14 The Hermit――a Prophetic Ballad. The St. James’s Gazette, 1881 15 The Hermit of Vauxhall, _G. A. à Beckett_, 1845 17 RETALIATION The Speaker’s Dinner. Posthumous Parodies 15 Home, sweet Home. _H. C. Bunner_, 1881 17 The Tears of Genius. _Courtney Melmoth_, 1774 (Thomas Jackson Pratt) 19 The Vicar of Wakefield, and Olivia. _W. G. Wills_ 19 The Vicar of Wide-a-Wakefield, or the Miss-Terryous Uncle, a burlesque by _H. P. Stephens and W. Yardley_ 19 The Caste of the Burlesque 20 Jupiter and Mercury. _David Garrick_ 20 ―――― Mrs. F. D. Hemans. THE STATELY HOMES OF ENGLAND 129 The Donkey-boys of England. Punch, 1849 129 The Garden Grounds of England 130 The Merchant Prince of England. _Shirley Brooks_ 130 The dirty Cabs of London. Punch, 1853 130 The Duns of Merry England. Diogenes, 1853 131 The Barristers of England. Punch, 1853 131 The Compo’d Homes of England. The Figaro 131 The Stately Homes of England. Truth, 1877 132 The Cottage Homes of England. Punch, 1874 132 The Haunted Homes of England. Pall Mall Gazette, 1883 132 The Stately Men of England. _Hugh Cayley_ 132 The Unhealthy Homes of England. Punch, 1884 133 Ye Cottage Homes of England. Truth, 1885 133 The Graves of a Household. The Man in the Moon 138 He never wrote again. _Phœbe Carey_, 1854 139 LEAVES HAVE THEIR TIME TO FALL. Fish have their times to bite. College Rhymes 139 CASABIANCA 133 “Macbeth stood on the new-built Stage” (Mr. Henry Irving as Macbeth.) The Figaro, 1875 134 The Mule stood on the Steamboat Deck” 134 “The boy stood on the back-yard fence” 134 “The dog lay on the butcher’s stoop” 134 “The Peer stood on the burning deck.” Truth, 1884 134 “The girl stewed on the burning deck” 135 “The boy stood by the stable door” 135 THE BETTER LAND 135 “I’ve heard thee speak of a good hotel” 136 “I have heard you speak of ‘Three acres of land.’” _Edward Walford_, M.A. Life, 1885 136 “I hear thee speak of a bit o’ land” 136 “I hear thee speak of a ‘Plot of Land’” 137 An answer to the preceding 137 “I hear thee speak of a Western land” 137 “I hear them speak of a Happy Land.” Fun 138 ―――― Charles Kingsley. “THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING AWAY TO THE WEST” 117 “Three Merchants went riding.” Punch, 1858 117 “Four Merchants who thought themselves.” 117 The Lasher at Iffley. College Rhymes, 1861. “Eight coveys went out in their college boat.” 117 “Three mothers sat talking.” Punch, 1861 118 “Three freshmen went loafing.” College Rhymes 118 “Three fellahs went out to a house in the west.” 118 “Three husbands went forth.” Banter, 1867 118 “Three Children were playing.” The Mocking Bird, _F. Field_, 1868 119 “Three Students sat writing.” The Cantab, 1873 119 “Three _gourmands_ invited were into the West.” 119 “Three ladies went skating.” Idyls of the Rink 119 “Three regiments went sailing away to the East,” 119 “Three practical men went strolling west.” 120 “Three profits had got to come out of the land.” 120 “Three lambkins went larking.” Judy, 1879 120 “Three rascals went ranting round in the West.” _Gobo_, The World, 1879 120 “Three land agitators went down to the West.” 121 “Three Paddies went spouting away at Gurteen.” _F. B. Doveton_ 121 “Three fishes were floating about in the Sea.” 121 “Three Tories went bravely.” Grins and Groans 121 “There were three pussy cats.” Fun. 1882 121 “Three Fishmongers looked for a sale.” 1883 122 “Three Potters set out all dressed in their best.” 122 “Three Champions went stumping.” Punch 1884 122 “Three Fossils sat perched in the Whitehall Zoo.” 122 “Three fishermen went gaily out into the North.” 122 “Three acres seemed pleasant to Countryman Hodge.” Punch, 1885 123 “Three Farmers went driving up into the town.” 123 “Three Topers went strolling out into the East.” _Hyde Parker._ 1886 123 “Three Poets went sailing down Boston streets.” _Lilian Whiting_ 123 “Three Filchers went cadging.” The Free Lance 124 Three Students were walking.” The Lays of the Mocking Sprite 124 “Three Melons went sailing out in the West.” 124 “Three Carpets hung waiving abroad in the breeze.” 124 “Three worthless young fellows went out in the night.” 124 “Three Sports got into a railroad car.” 125 “Three husbands went reeling home out of the West.” _Mrs. G. L. Banks_ 125 “Three young men who never went astray.” 125 “Three Anglers went down to fish Sunbury Weir.” The Angler’s Journal, 1886 139 “Three Freshers went sailing out into the street.” 139 “An Umpire went sallying out into the East.” 140 Three women went sailing out into the street. 279 Three little fishers trudged over the hill. _F. H. Stauffer_ 279 Three cows were seized for tithe rent in the West. 280 Three fishers went fishing out into the sea. _H. C. Dodge_ 280 ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. “Welcome, wild North-Easter!” 125 The Surgeon’s Wind. Punch, 1857 126 Hang thee, vile North-Easter. Punch, 1858 126 “Welcome, wild North-Easter,” as sung by a Debutante at the last Drawing Room 127 Welcome, English Easter. Fun, 1867 128 Kingsley, and the South-west Trains 128 “I once saw a sweet pretty face.” 128 The Dirdum. A parody of C. Kingsley’s Scotch poem on an Oubit, 1862 129 ―――― Thomas Moore. ’TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER 230 ’Tis the first rose of Summer, _R. Gilfillan_ 230 Do. do. Wiseheart’s Songster 230 ’Tis the last man in London. The National Omnibus, 1831 230 I’m the last Rose of Summer, 1832 231 ’Tis the last summer bonnet. _T. H. Bayly_, 1833 231 ’Tis the last bit of candle. Wiseheart’s Songster 231 The last lamp of the alley. _Dr. Maginn_ 232 ’Tis the last choice Havana 232 ’Tis the straw hat of summer 232 ’Tis the last of the Fancy. Judy, 1867 232 ’Tis the last weed of Hudson’s. J. R. G. 233 ’Tis the last little tizzy. The Snob, 1829 233 ’Tis the last of the members. Figaro in London 233 ’Tis the last fly of summer. Punch’s Pocket Book, 1848 233 He’s the last “Vivâ Voce.” College Rhymes 234 ’Tis the last belle of summer. Funny Folks 234 ’Tis the last pipe this winter. Funny Folks, 1879 234 ’Tis the last jar of pickles 234 He’s the last of his party. _R. H. Lawrence_ 234 ’Tis the last baked potato. _W. W. Dixon_ 235 ’Tis a prime leg of mutton. _Lizzie Griffin_ 235 ’Tis the last rose of Windsor. _F. Rawkins_ 235 ’Tis the last blow of a drummer. _Hugh Cayley_ 235 ’Tis the last _ruse_ of someone. The Globe, 1886 236 Let Erin remember. Punch. 1885 236 WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE 236 To a Bottle of old Port. _Dr. Maginn_ 236 When he who adjures thee 236 When he who now bores thee 264 THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS 236 The Puff that once thro’ Colburn’s halls. 1831 237 The Belt which once. Egan’s Book of Sports, 1832 237 The Harp that once in Warren’s Mart. Punch 237 The Broom that once through Sarah’s halls. Judy 237 The Girl that oft in lighted halls, 1869 237 The Voice that once thro’ Senate halls. Funny Folks, 1884 237 Luke Sharpe, who once. Detroit Free Press, 1885 238 The Plate that once through Fashion’s halls 264 Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour. Figaro, 1833 260 Fly not to wine. The Blue Bag, 1832 238 Fly not yet. St. James’s Gazette, 1881 238 RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE 238 Rich and furred was the robe he wore, _T. Hook_ 238 Ragged and rough were the clothes she wore 239 Rich and rare were the arms she bore 239 Rough and red was the cloak she wore 239 Quaint and queer were the gems she wore 264 THERE IS NOT IN THE WIDE WORLD 239 There is not in this city an alley so sweet. National Omnibus, 1831 239 There is not in the palace. National Omnibus 239 There’s not in Saint Stephen’s. Figaro in London 239 There is not in all London. Punch, 1842 240 There’s not in the wide world a country so sweet 240 There’s not in the wide world an odour less sweet 240 O, There’s not in the West-end, Punch. 1872 240 There’s not in all London a tavern so gay. _G. W. M. Reynolds_ 240 On Stephen Kemble 240 The Irish welcome 241 The Trifle. Punch, 1852 241 The Bitter cry of outcast London. Two parodies from the Weekly Dispatch, by _T. A. Wilson_ and _Aramis_ 241 The meteing of the waters. Punch, 1884 241 The Thames. _B. Saunders_. 1884 242 The House of Lords. H. B., 1884 242 There is not to the poet. _E. A. Horne_, 1884 242 The Heiress. _Aramis_. 1884 242 The Club Smoking-room. _J. Pratt_, 1884 242 The Meeting of the Emperors. Moonshine, 1884 243 There’s not in old Ireland. _Walter Parke_ 270 Come, send round the wine. 1825 243 BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS 243 Mr. Colburn to Lady Morgan’s Books, 1831 243 On the House of Lords and Reform. Figaro in London, 1831 243 Believe me, dear Susan. Diogenes, 1854 243 To a lady in a crinoline. Punch, 1857 244 John Bull to Paddy, 1867 244 John Bright to his place, 1869 244 To an Ancient Coquette 244 On College Don 244 On Roast pork. _F. B. Doveton_, 1881 244 On Tory election promises, 1886 244 Oh, blame not the Bard. Fun, 1883 245 Oh! the days are gone when beauty bright. 1869 245 LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE 245 Peggy hath a squinting eye 245 Lesbia hath a fowl to cook 246 Lesbia’s skirt doth streaming fly. Punch, 1856 246 Lemon is a little hipped. _Charles Dickens_, 1855 246 This suit is all chequer’d 246 OH! THE SHAMROCK 247 Oh! the Scarecrows. United Ireland, 1885 247 One more try at parting. Punch’s Almanac, 1883 247 THE YOUNG MAY MOON 248 The Irishman’s serenade 248 The Bladder of whiskey 248 The Cat’s serenade 248 The old March moon. Diogenes, 1854 248 Song of the Signalman, Punch, 1885 248 Defeated Manœuvres 249 THE MINSTREL BOY 249 Mister Sheil into Kent has gone. _W. M. Thackeray_ 249 The Sailor Boy on a tour is gone. 1832 249 The _leary cove_ to the Mill is gone. 1832 249 The fiddler’s boy to the fair is gone 249 The Koh-i-noor to the wall has gone. Punch, 1851 250 The Cordon Bleu (M. A. Soyer). Punch, 1855 250 The Draper’s man. Punch, 1857 250 The Chinese Boy to the War is gone 250 The Errand Boy. Judy, 1869 250 The Beardless Boy. Punch, 1875 250 The Minstrel Boy in the train. Funny Folks 250 Bradlaugh to protest is gone. _S. J. Miott_ 251 The Warrior Duke (of Cambridge) 251 The Alderman from Guildhall has gone. Judy, 1880 251 The Girton Girl to Exam’ has gone. Funny Folks 251 The Grand old Boy. Punch, 1882 251 The Noble Lord to the stores is gone. Judy, 1882 251 Sir D. V. Gay to the poll is gone. United Ireland 252 Our Bradlaugh boy 252 The ’prentice boy to the street has gone 252 The Grand Young Man. _F. B. Doveton_ 252 The Grand old man to the North has gone. Life 253 The Grand old man. Songs for Liberal electors 253 The Shy Bo-Peep to the sea is gone. A. H. S. 276 The time I’ve lost in “screwing” 253 Come, rest on this gridiron. Punch, 1881 253 To the Finish I went. _Dr. W. Maginn_ 253 I saw up the steps. Lays of the Mocking Sprite 253 I saw from my window. Girl of the Period, 1869 254 SAIL ON, SAIL ON, THOU FEARLESS BARK 254 Scale on, scale on, oh! tuneless strummer 254 THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE 254 Tea, Tea, only Tea. Punch, 1884 254 OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME 254 Oh, try, good sirs, some better game. 1886. _B. Saunders_ 254 Oh! try some worthier, better game. _D. Evans_ 255 Oh! call it by some better name. _J. Fitzpatrick_ 255 Oh! call it by some fitter name. _Gossamer_ 255 Oh! call him by some stronger name. _Robert Puttick_ 255 I KNEW BY THE SMOKE THAT SO GRACEFULLY CURL’D 255 I knew by the wig that so gracefully curl’d 255 I knew by the post that so gaily display’d. The Mirror, 1823 255 We knew by the string that so gracefully curl’d 256 I saw by the steam that so gracefully curl’d 256 I knew by the smoke that so heavily curl’d 256 To Dizzy, “When time hath bereft thee,” 1867 256 By the Thames to the right, is the flat shore of Erith 256 Had I a shilling left to spare, _Bertie Vyse_ 256 A CANADIAN BOAT SONG. “Faintly as tolls the evening chime” 257 The Cabinet’s Boat Song, 1878 257 “Plainly as tolls disruption’s chime,” 1886 257 HITHER, FLORA, QUEEN OF FLOWERS! 257 “Hither, Flora of the street. _T. A. Wilson_ 257 “Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers.” _Aramis_ 258 ” ” ” ” _Thistle_ 258 When in gaol I shall calm recline 258 When in death I shall quiet be found 258 When in death I shall calm recline. 1832 271 Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour 259 To Tory hearts a round, boys 259 A nice Devill’d Biscuit. Punch 259 Apple pie. “All new dishes fade.” 259 THOSE EVENING BELLS 259 Those Christmas Bills. _W. Hone_, 1826 259 That Chapel Bell. The Gownsman, 1830 260 My white moustache. Figaro, 1832 260 Those London belles. _Miss Bryant_ 260 Those Ball-room belles. Diogenes, 1853 261 Those Scotch hotels, Diogenes, 1853 261 Those Gresham chimes. Punch, 1853 261 Those Tramway bells. Funny Folks 261 Those Evening bells. _Tom Hood_ 261 Those London Bells. _Shirley Brooks_, 1855 261 Those Pretty Girls. J. W. W. 261 Those Vatted Rums. Punch, 1855 262 Those evening belles. Pan the Pilgrim 262 That Muffin bell. Punch, 1880 262 The Parcel Post. Judy, 1883 262 Those Evening belles. Moonshine, 1886 262 OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT 262 Oft, o’er my tea and toast. Figaro in London 263 Oft, in his present plight. The Puppet Show, 1848 263 Oft, in the chilly night. Memoirs of a Stomach 263 Oft, on a “silly” night. Funny Folks, 1878 263 Oft, in election’s fight. Truth, 1886 263 HERE’S THE BOWER SHE LOVED SO MUCH 264 Here’s the box that held the snuff 264 Here’s the bottle she loved so much. _J. Bruton_ 264 THERE’S A BOWER OF ROSES BY BENDEMEER’S STREAM 264 There’s of benches a row in St. Stephen’s extreme 264 There’s a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin’s yard. _Phœbe Carey_, 1854 264 One morn a Tory at the gate. Figaro, 1832 265 A Peri at the “Royal” gate. Truth. 1877 265 This week a Peeress at the gate. Truth, 1883 265 One morn Ben Dizzy at the gate 266 FAREWELL, FAREWELL TO THEE, ARABY’S DAUGHTER 266 Farewell, farewell to thee, desolate Erin! 266 Farewell, farewell to thee, Arabi darling! 266 Begone, begone with thee, son of Shere Ali! 267 Away, away, with the Ameer unlucky! 267 Farewell, farewell to thee, Ireland’s protector! 270 OH! EVER THUS, FROM CHILDHOOD’S HOUR 267 I never wrote up “Skates to Sell” 267 I never loved a dear gazelle 268 I never rear’d a young gazelle. _H. S. Leigh_ 268 I never had a piece of toast 268 A Parody by _Tom Hood_ the younger 268 Wus! ever wus! _H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_ 268 ’Twas ever thus! _C. S. Calverley_ 268 I never bought a young Gazelle 269 The young Gazelle, a Moore-ish tale. _Walter Parke_ 269 Come hither, come hither, by night and by day 270 A Parody. On the House of Commons, 1832 270 Sweet Borough of Tamworth 1832 270 The Sweet Briar. C. S. K. 271 Miscellaneous Parodies on “Paradise and the Peri” 271 Lalla Rookh Burlesque. _Vincent Amcotts_ 272 One more Irish Melody, 1869 272 On Lord Brougham, 1833 272 Loves of the Mortals 272 Loves of the New Police 273 Jack Randall’s Diary, 1820 273 Young Love once fell through a straw-thatched shed 273 The Bencher, or whitewashing day 273 The Living Lustres. Rejected Addresses 273 A Fallen Angel over a Bowl of Rum-Punch. _Christopher North_, 1823 274 Love and the Flimsies. _Thomas Love Peacock_ 275 The Bard of Erin’s Lament 275 Old Sherry. (An Anacreontic, 1828) 275 ANACREON’S ODE XXI. “Observe when mother earth is dry” 276 Earlier translations by Ronsard, Capilupus, Shakespeare, Lord Rochester, and Abraham Cowley 276 On Moore’s Plagiarisms. An article in Fraser’s Magazine, June, 1841 276 Lays of the Saintly. _Walter Parke_ 270 “The Duke is the lad to frighten a lass,” by _Thomas Moore_ 260 ―――― Sir Walter Scott. Rebecca and Rowena. _W. M. Thackeray_ 71 A Tale of Drury Lane. Rejected Addresses 72 BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER 73 Blue Stockings over the Border. Mirror 1828 74 Write, write, tourist and traveller. _Robert Gilfillan_ 74 Read, read, Woodstock and Waverley, _Robert Gilfillan_, 1831 74 Tax, tax, Income and Property. Punch, 1851 75 March, march, pipe-clayed and belted in 75 Take, take, lobsters and lettuces. Punch 75 Take, take, blue pill and colocynth. Punch 75 Drill, drill, London and Manchester. Punch, 1859 75 MR. KEMPLE’S FAREWELL ADDRESS, 1817 “As the worn war-horse at the trumpet’s sound” 75 Mr. Patrick Robertson’s farewell to the Bar “As the worn show horse whom Ducrow so long” 76 Lament for Tabby, or the Cat’s Coronach. The Satirist, 1814 76 THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 77 Introduction―― “The way was long, the wind was cold” 77 “The tide was low, the wind was cold.” Funny Folks, 1875 77 “The sun was hot, the day was bright.” Weekly Echo, 1885 77 The Lay of the last Cab-Hack. Funny Folks 78 The Bray of the last Donkey 78 The Lay of the last Ministry. Fun, 1885 78 Mr. Barnum’s Experience of Travelling 116 CANTO III.―― “And said I that my limbs were old” 78 “And thought they I was growing old.” They are Five. 1880, 79 CANTO VI.―― “Breathes there the man with soul so dead” 79 A declamation, by Miss Mudge, the Blue Stocking 79 “Breathes there a Scot with soul so dead.” _O. P. Q. P. Smiff_. The Figaro, 1874 79 Pilosagine. Advertisement parody 80 “Lives there a man with soul so dead” 80 “Breathes there a man with taste so dead.” The Figaro, 1876 80 “O Caledonia! very stern and wild.” Jon Duan 80 Don Salisbury’s Midnight Vigil. Truth, 1885 81 Parody from the Lays of the Mocking Sprite 82 ALBERT GRAEME. “It was an English ladye bright” 81 “It was a toper one Saturday night” 81 “It was an Oxford Scholar bright.” The Shotover Papers, 1874 82 The Lay of the Poor Fiddler, 1814 81 St. Fillan’s Arm. From Lays of the Saintly, by _Walter Parke_ 83 The Blue Brother. _Walter Parke_ 83 The Lay of the Scottish Fiddle, 1814. _James Kirke Paulding_ 84 A Lay to the Last Minstrel. _Edward Churton_ 84 MARMION. O Woman! in our hours of ease 84 Oh! Scotsman! in thine hour of ease 84 A good Wife 85 A Dedication to Women. Finis, 1877 85 The Mansion House Marmion (Lord Mayor Fowler). Truth, 1883 85 LOCHINVAR 86 Lock-and-Bar. Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine 86 “O young William Jones is come out of the West.” 87 “The big-booted Czar had his eye on the East.” _Shirley Brooks_, 1854 87 “It was Albert of Wales and his troop of Hussars. Judy, 1871 88 “Choice of Stoke-upon-Trent, lo, Kenealy confest.” Punch, 1875 88 “O young Stephey Cave is come out of the East.” 89 Young Lochinvar in Blank Verse. Free Press Flashes, 1883 89 “Oh! A Bishop from Surrey is come here to pray.” From Marmion Travesty, by Peter Pry 90 Epigrams on the Duke of York 91 A Parody concerning Mr. Digby Pigott. 1877. 116 THE LADY OF THE LAKE, 1810 91 The Lady of the Wreck, or Castle Blarneygig. _George Colman_ 91 “The stag at eve had drunk his fill” 91 “The pig at eve was lank and faint” 91 BOAT SONG―― “Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances” 91 “Hail our Chief! now he’s wet through with whiskey.” _George Colman_ 92 “Hail to the Chief” (Gladstone). Punch, 1880 92 The Nile Song. Punch, 1863 99 Mountain Dhu; or, the Knight, the Lady, and the Lake. Burlesque. _Andrew Halliday_, 1866 92 The Lady of the Lake, plaid in a new tartan. Burlesque. by _R. Reece_ 92 “Raising the “Fiery Cross.” Punch, 1884 93 ROKEBY, 1813 94 Jokeby, by an amateur of Fashion, 1813 (attributed to John Roby, also to Thomas Tegg, and to the Brothers Smith) 94 “O, Brignall banks are wild and fair” 94 “Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay” 94 Smokeby, in Ephemerides, 1813 94 Rokeby the second, in the Satirist, 1813 94 MacArthur, an Epic Poem, ascribed to Walter Scott. The Satirist, 1808 95 Valentines. The Satirist, 1810 95 The Ovation of the Empty Chair. The Satirist, 1811 95 Walter Scott, Esq., to his Publishers. Accepted Addresses, 1813 96 The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Britain, by James Hogg, 1816 96 “O, heard ye never of Wat o’ the Cleuch” 97 The Battle of Brentford Green. Warreniana, 1824 97 The Bridal of Caolchairn. _John Hay Allan_, 1822 99 Rejected Odes. Humphrey Hedgehog, 1813 99 A Border Ballad. _Thomas Love Peacock_, 1837 99 “Carle, now the King’s come” 99 “Sawney, now the King’s come” 99 The Battle of Wimbledon. Punch, 1862 99 Kenilworth Burlesque, by R. Reece and H. B. Farnie 99 The Lay of the Lost Minstrel 112 CORONATION LAYS. The New Monthly Magazine, July, 1831. Containing parodies of Walter Scott, The Lay of the Lost Minstrel. T. Campbell, The Show in London. S. T. Coleridge, “The Sun it shone on spire and wall.” W. Wordsworth, Sonnets on the Coronation. L. E. Landon, The Little Absentee. George Crabbe, A Reflection. Thomas Moore, A Melody. Thomas Hood, A Glance from a Hood. Robert Southey, P.L., The Laureate’s Lay 112 ―――― Scotch Songs. The London University “March, march, dustmen and coal-heavers.” The Spirit of the Age, 1829 99 “Smoke, smoke! Arcade and College Green” 100 OH WHERE, AND OH WHERE 100 “Oh where, and oh where, is my Harry Brougham gone?” Punch, 1846 100 “Oh, where, and oh where, has my learned counsel gone?” Punch, 1848 100 The great kilt Reform. Diogenes, 1854 100 “Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie gone.” Judy, 1879 101 BONNIE DUNDEE “To the gents of the pantry ’twas Yellow-plush spoke,” 1872 101 The Maidens of Bonnie Dundee “And did they its meeting turn into a joke” 101 “Tis a jolly conception”!――’twas Truscott who spoke.” (The Temple Bar Obstruction) 101 “In the House of St. Stephen’s Britannia thus spoke” 102 “To the lords of Creation ’twas Chamberlain spoke” 102 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING. The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming, oh dear, oh dear 102 Hey, Johnny Cumming! are ye waukin’ yet? 103 The Camels are coming, at last, at last! The Globe, 1884 103 My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands. Punch, 1883 103 WOO’D AND MARRIED AN’ A’ 103 The Tourists’ Matrimonial Guide through Scotland. _Lord Neaves_ 103 CHARLEY IS MY DARLING―― “Charley was so daring” (Sir Charles Napier) 104 “O, Langtry, wilt thou gang wi’ me” 105 ROBIN ADAIR―― “You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier,” _Robert Burns_, 1793 105 “Canning, O rare!” Liverpool election, 1812 105 ―――― Robert Southey, Poet Laureate. THALABA THE DESTROYER―― “How beautiful is night?” 140 “How troublesome is day?” _T. L. Peacock_ 141 “How beautiful is green?” Charterhouse Poems 141 THE CURSE OF KEHAMA―― “Midnight, and yet no eye.” 141 “Midnight, yet not a nose.” The Rebuilding _James Smith_. The Rejected Addresses 141 Justice. Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon, 1874 144 THE CATARACT OF LODORE―― “How does the water come down at Lodore?” 145 Before and after Marriage How do the gentlemen do before marriage? 145 How do they do after marriage 146 How the Daughters come down at Dunoon. Puck on Pegasus. _H. C. Pennell_ 146 How does the drunkard go down to the tomb? 147 How do the jolly days pass in the Holidays? Banter, 1867 147 How the Horses come round at the Corner. Fun 148 May in Lincolnshire. Once a week, 1872 148 How do the ’Varsities come to the Race 149 Ready for the Derby Start. Funny Folks, 1878 149 How does the water come down at Niagara? Funny Folks, 1878 150 How the Customers come to the Sandown Bazaar. _W. J. Craig_, 1879 150 Is it how the Home Rulers make spaches, me boys? _Miss Story_ 151 Here they come broguing, together colloquing. _C. J. Graves_ 152 Here they come wrangling. _Pembroke_ 152 Just out of one bother into another. _Hoyle_ 152 The World. Parody Competition. Nov., 1879 How the Home Rulers behave at St. Stephens. _F. B. Doveton_, 1880 153 How do cheap trippers come down to the shore? 153 How do the waters come down on the public? 154 How the Commons rush in through the door? 154 How do the Landlords “come down on” the Act? 155 How the Tourists come down to the shore. Detroit Free Press, 1885 155 The Falls of Niagara. _E. H. Bickford_ 156 “YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM” 156 A Parody from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland 156 “You are cold, Father William.” The Figaro 157 “You air old, Father William. Zoz, 1878 157 “You are old, Father William.” Mayfair, 1878 157 “You are sad, People’s William.” Truth, 1878 157 “You are old, turkey gobbler.” Free Press Flashes, 1882 158 “You look young, little Randolph.” Punch, 1882 158 Parody Competition in Truth, April 5, 1883 “You are old, Father William.” _Repealer_ 159 “You are young, Master Randolph.” _Pickwick_ 159 “You’re a Peer, now, Lord Wolseley.” _Skriker_ 159 “New Honours, Lord Wolseley.” _Old Log_ 159 “You are old, Lady William.” _Third Raven_ 159 “You are old, Kaiser Wilhelm.” T. S. G. 160 “You are plain, Mr. Biggar.” _Paste_ 160 “You are young, Randolph Churchill.” _Yash_ 160 “You are old, Father William.” _Don Juan_ 160 “You have told, Lady Florence.” _Ohr_ 161 “You are old, Noble Senate.” Poetry for the Poor. 1884 161 “You are old, Father William” (Mr. Gladstone.) Truth, 1884 161 Old William Archer interviewed. The Sporting Times, 1885 162 On the danger of licking postage stamps. Funny Folks, 1885 162 Sequel to a great Poem. Once a Week, 1886 162 On Irish Policy. A new Alphabet of Irish Policy 162 A Valentine from Miss Hibernia to W. E. G. 163 THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM―― “It was a summer evening” 163 Notes on the Poem, 163 A Battle with Billingsgate. G. Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac 164 A Seasonable Gossip. The Puppet Show, 1848 164 The Battle of Jobbing. Diogenes, 1853 164 The Battle of Berlin. Funny Folks, 1878 165 Children at the Pantomime. _F. B. Doveton_. The World, 1880 165 Another Parody on the same topic. _A. Salter_ 165 The Battle of Brummagem. _William Bates_ 166 A Famous Holiday. Punch, 1880 166 A Glorious Victory (in Cricket). Punch, 1882 167 A Famous Victory (in Egypt). Clapham Free Press, 1884 168 The Battle of Blenheim House. Birmingham Daily Mail, 1885 168 The old Gladstonite and his Son. Morning Post 169 The Jackanape Jock, Cribblings from the Poets 169 SOUTHEY’S EARLY POLITICAL POEMS 170 BOB SOUTHEY! you’re a poet 171 The Anti-Jacobin Review 171 INSCRIPTION――Henry Marten, the Regicide 171 Inscription――Mrs. Brownrigg, the Prentice-cide 172 THE WIDOW. (Southey’s Sapphics) “Cold was the night-wind” 172 The Friend of Humanity, and the Knife Grinder 172 The Friend of Humanity, and the Bricklayer’s Labourer. John Bull, 1827 173 Sapphics of the Cabstand. Punch, 1853 173 Lay of the Proctor. The Shotover Papers, 1874 174 The Friend of Humanity, and Seafaring Person. Punch, 1874 174 The Friend of Humanity, and John Bull. Funny Folks, 1878 174 The Friend of Agriculture, and the needy new Voter. Punch, 1886 174 THE SOLDIER’S WIFE. Dactylics, 1795 175 The Soldier’s Friend. (Canning’s Contrast.) 175 The Soldier’s Wife. Imitation Dactylics 175 SOUTHEY’S OFFICIAL POEMS 176 The Curse of the Laureate. _James Hogg_ 176 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 176 The Vision of Judgment. _Lord Byron_ 176 A Slap at Slop. _William Hone_ 177 “The New Times” and “The Constitutional Association” 177 A New Vision. _William Hone_ 177 Carmen Triumphale. _W. F. Deacon_. Warreniana 179 “The Satirist or Monthly Meteor,” 1813 180 Epitaph for Robert Southey, Esq., Poet Laureate, The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1824 180 ―――― Algernon Charles Swinburne. THE COMMONWEAL, July 1, 1886 187 The Old Cause, A Counterblast. The Daily News, July 2, 1886 187 The Common Squeal. Punch, 1886 189 The Weekly Dispatch. Parodies by _A. Whalley_, and _F. B. Doveton_ 189 CONTENTS OF PARTS I. TO XXXVI. PARODIES. EACH PART MAY BE PURCHASED SEPARATELY. PART 1. Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems. PART 2. Alfred Tennyson’s Early Poems. PART 3. Alfred Tennyson’s Later Poems. PART 4. Page 49 to 62. Tennyson’s Poems. Page 62 to 64. H. W. Longfellow. PART 5. Page 65. A Parody of William Morris. Page 65 to 80. H. W. Longfellow. PART 6. Page 81 to 96. H. W. Longfellow. PART 7. Page 97 to 105. H. W. Longfellow. _Hiawatha._ Page 105 to 112. Rev. C. Wolfe. _Not a Drum was heard._ PART 8. Page 113. _Not a Drum was heard._ Page 113 to 128. _The Song of the Shirt._ PART 9. Page 129 to 135. Thomas Hood. Page 135 to 140. Bret Harte. Pages 140 & 141. _Not a Drum was heard._ Page 142 to 144. Alfred Tennyson. PART 10. Page 145 to 160. Alfred Tennyson. PART 11. Page 161 to 176. Alfred Tennyson. PART 12. Page 177 to 186. Alfred Tennyson. Page 187 to 190. _Not a Drum was heard._ Page 190 to 192. _The Song of the Shirt._ PART 13. Page 1 to 4. Bret Harte. Pages 4 and 5. Thomas Hood. Page 6 to 16. H. W. Longfellow. PART 14. Page 17 to 24. H. W. Longfellow. Page 25 to 40. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 15. Page 41 to 64. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 16. Page 65 to 88. Edgar Allan Poe. PART 17. Page 89 to 103. Edgar Allan Poe. Pages 103, 4 & 5. The Art of Parody. Page 106 to 112. _My Mother_, by Miss Taylor. PART 18. Page 113 to 135. _My Mother._ Page 136. The Vulture, (After “The Raven.”) Page 136. A Welcome to Battenberg. PART 19. Page 137 to 141. Tennyson’s _The Fleet_, etc. Page 141 to 143. _My Mother._ Page 144 to 160. Hamlet’s Soliloquy. PART 20. Page 161 to 184. W. Shakespeare. _The Seven Ages of Man_, etc. PART 21. Page 185 to 206. W. Shakespeare. Account of the Burlesques of his Plays. Page 206 to 208. Dr. Isaac Watts. PART 22. Page 209 to 217. Dr. Isaac Watts. Page 217 to 232. John Milton. PART 23. Page 233. John Milton. Page 233 to 236. Dryden’s Epigram on Milton. Page 236 to 238. Matthew Arnold. Page 239 to 244. W. Shakespeare. Page 244 to 246. Bret Harte. Page 246 to 255. H. W. Longfellow. Page 255 and 256 Thomas Hood. PART 24. Page 257 to 259. Thomas Hood. Page 260 to 280. Alfred Tennyson. PART 25. A CHAPTER ON PARODIES, by Isaac D’Israeli. Page 3 to 16. Oliver Goldsmith. PART 26. Page 17 to 20. Oliver Goldsmith. Page 20 to 40. Thomas Campbell. PART 27. Page 41 to 47. Thomas Campbell. Page 48 to 64. Robert Burns. PART 28. Page 65 to 71. Robert Burns. Page 71 to 88. Sir Walter Scott. PART 29. Page 89 to 99. Sir Walter Scott. Page 99 to 105. Scotch Songs. Page 106 to 109. Robert Burns. Page 109 to 112. Thomas Campbell. PART 30. Page 113 to 116. Coronation Lays. Page 117 to 129. Charles Kingsley. Page 129 to 136. Mrs. Hemans. PART 31. Page 137 to 140. Mrs. Hemans. Page 140 to 160. Robert Southey. PART 32. Page 161 to 181. Robert Southey. Page 181 to 184. The Anti-Jacobin. PART 33. Page 185 to 186. The Anti-Jacobin. Page 187 to 189. A. C. Swinburne. Page 189 to 208. Lord Byron. PART 34. Page 209 to 229. Lord Byron. Page 230 to 232. Thomas Moore. PART 35. Page 233 to 256. Thomas Moore. PART 36. Page 257 to 278. Thomas Moore. Page 278. Lord Byron. Pages 279 & 280. Charles Kingsley. NOTES AND CORRECTIONS. Page 19. _Courtney Melmoth_ was the assumed name of T. J. Pratt, who wrote “The Tears of Genius” lamenting the death of Oliver Goldsmith. Page 20, Line 3. For Cast read _Caste_. Page 71, Column 2, line 6. Read “Mr. William Cadenhead.” Page 80, Foot Note.――For “dear runs” read _deer runs_. Page 197. The Enigma on the letter H. here ascribed to Lord Byron was written by Miss Catherine Fanshawe. Page 208. “The Un-True Story” was written by Mr. Walter Parke for _Punch and Judy_, in 1870. The fifth line should read:―― “_Know ye the land of the dollar and dime?_” Page 218. Foot Note. Read, “Parody of a song in _The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan_.” Page 229. Don Juan Un-Read. This is a parody of _Wordsworth’s Yarrow Unvisited_. A CHAPTER ON PARODIES. A lady of _bas bleu_ celebrity (the term is getting odious, particularly to our _savantes_) had two friends, whom she equally admired――an elegant poet, and his parodist. She had contrived to prevent their meeting as long as her stratagems lasted, till at length she apologised to the serious bard for inviting him when his mock _umbra_ was to be present. Astonished, she perceived that both men of genius felt a mutual esteem for each other’s opposite talent; the ridiculed had perceived no malignity in the playfulness of the parody, and even seemed to consider it as a compliment, aware that parodists do not waste their talent on obscure productions; while the ridiculer himself was very sensible that he was the inferior poet. The lady-critic had imagined that PARODY must necessarily be malicious; and in some cases it is said those on whom the parody has been performed, have been of the same opinion. PARODY strongly resembles mimicry, a principle in human nature not so artificial as it appears. Man may well be defined a mimetic animal. The African boy who amused the whole kafle he journeyed with, by mimicking the gestures and the voice of the auctioneer who had sold him at the slave market a few days before, could have had no sense of scorn, of superiority, or of malignity; the boy experienced merely the pleasure of repeating attitudes and intonations which had so forcibly excited his interest. The numerous parodies of Hamlet’s soliloquy were never made in derision of that solemn monologue, no more than the travesties of Virgil by Scarron and Cotton; their authors were never so gaily mad as that. We have parodies on the Psalms by Luther; Dodsley parodied the book of Chronicles, and Franklin’s most beautiful story of Abraham is a parody on the Scripture-style; not one of these writers, however, proposed to ridicule their originals; some ingenuity in the application was all that they intended. The lady-critic alluded to had suffered by a panic, in imagining that a parody was necessarily a corrosive satire. Had she indeed proceeded one step further, and asserted that PARODIES might be classed among the most malicious inventions in literature, in such parodies as Colman and Lloyd made on Gray’s odes, in their odes to “Oblivion and Obscurity,” her readings possibly might have supplied the materials of the present research. PARODIES were frequently practised by the ancients, and with them, like ourselves, consisted of a work grafted on another work, but which turned on a different subject by a slight change of the expressions. It might be a sport of fancy, the innocent child of mirth; or a satirical arrow drawn from the quiver of caustic criticism; or it was that malignant art which only studies to make the original of the parody, however beautiful, contemptible and ridiculous. Human nature thus enters into the composition of parodies, and their variable character originates in the purpose of their application. There is in “the million” a natural taste for farce after tragedy, and they gladly relieve themselves by mitigating the solemn seriousness of the tragic drama; for they find, as one of them told us, that it is but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous; and if this taste be condemned by the higher order of intellectual persons, and a critic said he would prefer to have the farce played before the tragedy, the taste for parody would be still among them, for whatever tends to level a work of genius is usually very agreeable to a great number of contemporaries. In the history of PARODIES, some of the learned have noticed a supposititious circumstance, which it is not improbable happened, for it is a very natural one. When the rhapsodists, who strolled from town to town to chant different fragments of the poems of Homer, and had recited some, they were immediately followed by another set of strollers――buffoons who made the same audience merry by the burlesque turn which they gave to the solemn strains which had just so deeply engaged their attention. It is supposed that we have one of these travesties of the Iliad in one Sotades, who succeeded by only changing the measure of the verses without altering the words, which entirely disguised the Homeric character; fragments of which are scattered in Dionysius Halicarnassensis, which I leave to the curiosity of the learned Grecian.[1] Homer’s battle of the Frogs and Mice, a learned critic, the elder Heinsius, asserts, was not written by the poet, but is a parody on the poem. It is evidently as good humoured an one as any in the “Rejected Addresses.” And it was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most susceptible of the playful honours of the parodist; unless the prototype is familiar to us, a parody is nothing! Of these parodists of Homer we may regret the loss of one. Timon of Philius, whose parodies were termed Silli, from Silenus being their chief personage; he levelled them at the sophistical philosophers of his age: his invocation is grafted on the opening of the Iliad, to recount the evil doings of those babblers, whom he compares to those bags in which Æolus deposited all his winds; balloons inflated with empty ideas! We should like to have appropriated some of these _silli_, or parodies of Timon the Sillograph, which, however, seem to have been at times calumnious.[2] Shenstone’s “School Mistress,” and some few other ludicrous poems, derive much of their merit from parody. This taste for parodies was very prevalent with the Grecians, and is a species of humour which perhaps has been too rarely practised by the moderns: Cervantes has some passages of this nature in his parodies of the old chivalric romances; Fielding in some parts of his Tom Jones and Joseph Andrews, in his burlesque poetical descriptions; and Swift in his “Battle of Books,” and “Tale of a Tub,” but few writers have equalled the delicacy and felicity of Pope’s parodies in the “Rape of the Lock.” Such parodies give refinement to burlesque. The ancients made a liberal use of it in their satirical comedy, and sometimes carried it on through an entire work, as in the Menippean satire, Seneca’s mock _Eloge_ of Claudius, and Lucian in his Dialogues. There are parodies even in Plato, and an anecdotical one recorded of this philosopher shows them in their most simple state. Dissatisfied with his own poetical essays he threw them into the flames; that is, the sage resolved to sacrifice his verses to the god of fire; and in repeating that line in Homer where Thetis addresses Vulcan to implore his aid, the application became a parody, although it required no other change than the insertion of the philosopher’s name instead of the goddess’s:[3] “Vulcan, arise! ’tis _Plato_ claims thy aid!” Boileau affords a happy instance of this simple parody. Corneille, in his Cid, makes one of his personages remark, “Pour grands que soient les rois ils sont ce que nous sommes, Ils peuvent se tromper comme les autres hommes.” A slight alteration became a fine parody in Boileau’s “Chapelain Décoiflé.” “Pour grands que soient les rois ils sont ce que nous sommes, Ils se trompent _en vers_ comme les autres hommes.” We find in Athenæus the name of the Inventor of a species of parody which more immediately engages our notice――DRAMATIC PARODIES. It appears this inventor was a satirist, so that the lady-critic, whose opinion we had the honour of noticing, would be warranted by appealing to its origin to determine the nature of the thing. A dramatic parody, which produced the greatest effect, was “the Gigantomachia.” as appears by the only circumstance known of it. Never laughed the Athenians so heartily as at its representation, for the fatal news of the deplorable state to which the affairs of the republic were reduced in Sicily arrived at its first representation――and the Athenians continued laughing to the end! as the modern Athenians, the volatile Parisians, might in their national concern of an OPERA COMIQUE. It was the business of the dramatic parody to turn the solemn tragedy, which the audience had just seen exhibited, into a farcical comedy; the same actors who had appeared in magnificent dresses, now returned on the stage in grotesque habiliments, with odd postures and gestures, while the story, though the same, was incongruous and ludicrous. The Cyclops of Euripides is probably the only remaining specimen; for this may be considered as a parody of the ninth book of the Odyssey――the adventures of Ulysses in the cave of Polyphemus, where Silenus and a chorus of satyrs are farcically introduced, to contrast with the grave narrative of Homer, of the shifts and escape of the cunning man “from the one-eyed ogre.” The jokes are too coarse for the French taste of Brumoy, who, in his translation, goes on with a critical growl and foolish apology for Euripides having written a farce; Brumoy, like Pistol, is forced to eat his onion, but with a worse grace, swallowing and execrating to the end. In dramatic composition, Aristophanes is perpetually hooking in parodies of Euripides, whom of all poets he hated, as well as of Æschylus, Sophocles, and other tragic bards. Since that Grecian wit, at length, has found a translator saturated with his genius, and an interpreter as philosophical, the subject of Grecian parody will probably be reflected in a clearer light from his researches. Dramatic parodies in modern literature were introduced by our vivacious neighbours, and may be said to constitute a class of literary satires peculiar to the French nation. What had occurred in Greece a similar gaiety of national genius unconsciously reproduced. The dramatic parodies in our own literature, as in “The Rehearsal,” “Tom Thumb,” and “The Critic,” however exquisite, are confined to particular passages, and are not grafted on a whole original; we have neither naturalised the dramatic parody into a species, nor dedicated to it the honours of a separate theatre. This peculiar dramatic satire, a burlesque of an entire tragedy, the volatile genius of the Parisians accomplished. Whenever a new tragedy, which still continues the favourite species of drama with the French, attracted the notice of the town, shortly after up rose its parody at the Italian theatre. A French tragedy is most susceptible of this sort of ridicule, by applying its declamatory style, its exaggerated sentiments, and its romantic out-of-the-way nature to the commonplace incidents and persons of domestic life; out of the stuff of which they made their emperors, their heroes, and their princesses, they cut out a pompous country justice, a hectoring tailor, or an impudent mantua-maker; but it was not merely this travesty of great personages, nor the lofty effusions of one in a lowly station, which terminated the object of parody; it intended a better object, that of more obviously exposing the original for any absurdity in its scenes, or in its catastrophe, and dissecting faulty characters; in a word, critically weighing the nonsense of the poet. It sometimes became a refined instructor for the public, whose discernment is often blinded by party or prejudice. It was, too, a severe touch-stone for genius: Racine, some say, smiled, others say he did not, when he witnessed Harlequin, in the language of Titus to Berenice, declaiming on some ludicrous affair to Columbine; La Motte was very sore, and Voltaire and others shrunk away with a cry――from a parody! Voltaire was angry when he witnessed his _Mariamne_ parodied by _La mauvaise Mênage_; or “Bad House-keeping:” the aged, jealous Herod was turned into an old cross country justice; Varus, bewitched by Mariamne, strutted a dragoon; and the whole establishment showed it was under very bad management. Fuzelier collected some of these parodies,[4] and not unskilfully defends their nature and their object against the protest of La Motte, whose tragedies had severely suffered from these burlesques. His celebrated domestic tragedy of Inez de Castro, the fable of which turns on a concealed and clandestine marriage, produced one of the happiest parodies in _Agnes de Chaillot_. In the parody the cause of the mysterious obstinacy of Pierrot the son, in persisting to refuse the hand of the daughter of his mother-in-law Madame _la Baillive_, is thus discovered by her to Monsieur _le Baillif_:―― “Mon mari, pour le coup j’ai découvert l’affaire, Ne vous étonnez plus qu’à nos désirs contraire, Pour ma fille, Pierrot, ne montre que mépris: Voilà l’unique objet dont son cœur est épris.” (_Pointing to Agnes de Chaillot._ The Baillif exclaims, “Ma servante?” This single word was the most lively and fatal criticism of the tragic action of Inez de Castro, which, according to the conventional decorum and fastidious code of French criticism, grossly violated the majesty of Melpomene, by giving a motive and an object so totally undignified to the tragic tale. In the parody there was something ludicrous when the secret came out which explained poor Pierrot’s long concealed perplexities, in the maid-servant bringing forward a whole legitimate family of her own! La Motte was also galled by a projected parody of his “Machabees”――where the hasty marriage of the young Machabeus, and the sudden conversion of the amorous Antigone, who, for her first penitential act, persuades a youth to marry her, without first deigning to consult her respectable mother, would have produced an excellent scene for the parody. But La Motte prefixed an angry preface to his Inez de Castro; he inveighs against all parodies, which he asserts to be merely a French fashion (we have seen, however, that it was once Grecian), the offspring of a dangerous spirit of ridicule, and the malicious amusement of superficial minds.――“Were this true,” retorts Fuzelier, “we ought to detest parodies; but we maintain, that far from converting virtue into a paradox, and degrading truth by ridicule, PARODY will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition. What do we parody but the absurdities of dramatic writers, who frequently make their heroes act against nature, common sense and truth? After all” he ingeniously adds, “it is the public, not we, who are the authors of these PARODIES; for they are usually but the echoes of the pit, and we parodists have only to give a dramatic form to the opinions and observations we hear. Many tragedies,” Fuzelier, with admirable truth, observes, “disguise vices into virtues, and PARODIES unmask them.” We have had tragedies recently which very much required parodies to expose them, and to shame our inconsiderate audiences, who patronised these monsters of false passions. The rants and bombast of some of these might have produced, with little or no alteration of the inflated originals, “A Modern Rehearsal,” or a new “Tragedy for Warm Weather.” Of PARODIES, we may safely approve of their legitimate use, and even indulge their agreeable maliciousness; while we must still dread that extraordinary facility to which the public, or rather human nature, are so prone, as sometimes to laugh at what, at another time, they would shed tears. Tragedy is rendered comic or burlesque by altering the _station_ and _manners_ of the _persons_; and the reverse may occur, of raising what is comic and burlesque into tragedy. On so little depends the sublime or the ridiculous! Beattie says “In most human characters there are blemishes, moral, intellectual, or corporeal; by exaggerating which, to a certain degree, you may form a comic character; as by raising the virtues, abilities, or external advantages of individuals, you form epic or tragic characters;” a subject humourously touched upon by Lloyd, in the prologue to “The Jealous Wife.” “Quarrels, upbraidings, jealousies, and spleen, Grow too familiar in the comic scene; Tinge but the language with heroic chime, ’Tis passion, pathos, character sublime. What big round words had swell’d the pompous scene, A king the husband, and the wife a queen!” ――――:o:―――― This apology for Parody, extracted from “The Curiosities of Literature,” was written by the late Mr. Isaac D’Israeli more than fifty years ago. Mr. Isaac D’Israeli was a Jewish gentleman of great literary attainments, and of a most amiable character. He was the father of the late Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield. Mr. Isaac D’Israeli died in 1848. Dr. Oliver Goldsmith, _Born at Pallas, in the County of Longford, Ireland, Nov._ 29, 1728, _Died in Brick Court, Temple, London, April_ 4, 1774. [Illustration: B]efore quoting the Parodies on the Poems of Oliver Goldsmith, mention must be made of three instances, in which he, himself, borrowed ideas from French sources. These are the well-known “Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize,” the “Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog,” and the favourite verses, entitled “Stanzas on Woman,” commencing “When lovely woman stoops to folly,” which appeared in “The Vicar of Wakefield,” when first published in 1765. Before Goldsmith settled down in London as a struggling man of letters, he had spent some time wandering about on the Continent, and had obtained a fairly good insight into foreign literature. He had, therefore, in all probability seen the poems of Ségur, printed in Paris in 1719, in which the following lines occur:―― “Lorsqu’une femme, après trop de tendresse, D’un homme sent la trahison, Comment, pour cette si douce foiblesse, Peut-elle trouver une guérison? Le seul remède qu’elle peut ressentir. La seule revanche pour son tort Pour faire trop tard l’amant repentir, Hélas! trop tard,――est la mort.”[5] These he appears to have almost literally translated, thus:―― When lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from ev’ry eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom――is to die. ―――― A PARAPHRASE. “When Woman,” as Goldsmith declares, “stoops to folly,” And finds out too late that false man can “betray,” She is apt to look dismal, and grow “melan-choly,” And, in short, to be anything rather than gay. He goes on to remark that “to punish her lover, Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye, There is but one method” which he can discover That’s likely to answer――that one is “to die!” He’s wrong――the wan and withering cheek; The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart; The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak The misery of the breaking heart; The wasted form, th’enfeebled tone That whispering mocks the pitying ear; Th’ imploring glances heaven-ward thrown As heedless, helpless, hopeless here; These wring the false one’s heart enough If made of penetrable stuff. From _The Black Mousquetaire_ (The Ingoldsby Legends.) ―――― A SONG FOR THE MILLION. When Harry Brougham turns a Tory, Too late convinc’d that Whigs betray, What can revive his tarnish’d glory? What his desertion best repay? The only robe his shame to cover, To hide the brand upon his back, And best reward this faithless lover―― That Peel can give him is――_the sack_. _Punch_ February, 1844. ―――― “WHEN LOVELY WOMAN.” When lovely woman wants a favour, And finds, too late, that man won’t bend, What earthly circumstance can save her From disappointment in the end? The only way to bring him over, The last experiment to try, Whether a husband or a lover, If he have feeling, is――to cry! From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, 1854. ―――― A SONG. When lovely woman, prone to folly, Finds that e’en ROWLAND’S oils betray; What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can turn gray hairs away? The only art gray hairs to cover, To hide their tint from every eye, To win fresh praises from her lover, And make him offer――is to dye. _Punch_, April, 1854. ―――― A REMEDY. When lovely woman stoops to poli- Tics, and finds it doesn’t pay, What charm can wean her from her folly, And put her in the proper way? The only plan we can discover, Is the one we now propose; That she should obtain a lover, Marry him, and mend his hose. _Diogenes_, 1853. ―――― CANZONET ON CRINOLINE. _By a Wretch._ When lovely woman, hooped in folly, Grows more expansive every day, And makes her husband melancholy To think what bills he’ll have to pay. When in the width of fashion swelling, With air-balloons her skirts may vie, The truth――(what hinders _Punch_ from telling?)―― Is that she looks a perfect Guy! _Punch_, February 21, 1857. ―――― “ANOTHER WAY.” When lovely woman, Lump of Folly, Would show the world her vainest trait; Would treat herself as child her dolly, And warn each man of sense away. The surest method she’ll discover To prompt a wink from every eye, Degrade a spouse, disgust a lover, And spoil a scalp-skin――is to dye, SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1866. ―――― A SILLY MANAGER. When Managers have stooped to folly, And find vulgarity won’t pay, And audiences won’t be jolly, But boldly rise and hiss the play: In order their misdeeds to cover, Some clap-trap for the gods they try Before the farce is halfway over, And insult add to injury. _Fun_, November 24, 1866. ―――― GOLDSMITH IMPROVED. When lovely woman takes to lollies,[6] And finds, too late, her teeth decay, What penitence can cure her follies, What chloroform her pain allay? If beauteous, she’ll be kindly pitied; If ugly, each good-tooth’d one’s butt. So she must get her mouth refitted, Or, what is better――keep it shut! _The Grasshopper_, July 1, 1869. ―――― BEAUTIFUL FOR EVER. When lovely woman, still a maiden, Finds her locks are turning grey, What art can keep their hue from fading? What balm can intercept delay? The only art her age to cover, To hide the change from every eye, To quell repentance in her lover, And soothe his bosom is――_to dye_. _Kottabos._ Dublin, W. McGee, 1872. ―――― FASHION. When lovely woman stoops to fashion And finds it like man’s fancy change, What can reclaim the truant passion, And capture it no more to range? The only way to curb love’s passion. And charm her fickle lover’s eye, To bring the colour to her chignon―― As the old joke says is――to dye. _The Hornet._ ―――― STANZAS ON WOMAN――BY O. G. When lovely woman takes to rinking, And finds how hard the asphalte’s got, What charm can save her heart from sinking, What art can heal the injured spot? The only plan she can pursue, To save herself another fall, In fact the only thing to do, In future’s not to rink at all. _The Idylls of the Rink_, 1876. ―――― STANZAS ON WOMAN. _By a modern Goldsmith._ When lovely woman reads _Le Follet_, And tries her best to men betray; She makes herself a pretty dolly, But fritters all her soul away. When she grows old, and charms decay, And crow’s-feet come beneath each eye; When skin is wrinkled――hair is grey―― Her only chance is then――to dye! _The Figaro_, January 1, 1873. ―――― STANZAS ON MAN. _By Dr. Silversmith._ When foolish man consents to marry, And finds, too late, his wife a shrew, When she her point in all must carry, ’Tis hard to say what’s best to do! In hopes the breeches to recover, To hide his shame from every eye. To be as free as when her lover His only method is――to fly. ―――― A BIT OF GOLDSMITH’S WORK NEW GILT. When lovely woman once so jolly, Finds, late in life, that hair grows grey, How make her case less melancholy, How hide Time’s step that none can stay? The only way his track to cover, To mask her age from every eye, And if she have a spoon for lover To keep him still “spoons,” is――to dye! ―――― ON A BREACH OF PROMISE. When lovely woman finds that breaches Of promise are her suitor’s wear, What is it the black record bleaches, And comforts the deserted fair? To punish the unfaithful lover, Where only he’ll his falsehood rue, Substantial damages recover―― Pursue _him_ not, but his purse _sue_! ―――― VENUS IMITATRIX. [Another Ladies Club is starting at the West-end.――See _Society Journals_.] (_Sung by a Clubbess_). When lovely woman’s melancholy Because her husband stays away From home, pursuing some mad folly, (“’Tis business, love,” they always say). The only plan to teach him manners, And cure the midnight latchkey hub, Is, dears, to march beneath our banners―― So, ladies, come and join our club. ―――― STANZAS ON WOMAN. When lovely woman longs to marry, And snatch a victim from the beaux, What charms the soft design will carry? What art will make the men propose? The only art her schemes to cover, To give her wishes sure success, To gain, to fix a captive lover, And “wring his bosom,” is TO DRESS. ―――― ON MR. ODGER. (_Formerly Candidate for Southwark._) When stupid Odger stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What thought can make him once more jolly? What hope can drive his spite away? The only thought his rage to smother Is one we’ll hope will turn out true; ’Tis thus he mutters, “You’re another; As you’ve Hughes’d me, they’ll use you too.” _Judy._ ―――― FASHION. When foolish woman stoops to fashion, And finds tight-lacing doesn’t pay, But turns her grey, and brings a rash on Her nose no powder charms away; What best the horrid tints can cover? What hide the truth from every eye, Defying e’en keen sighted lover? ’Tis to _Enamel_ and to _Dye_. _Grins and Groans_, 1882. ―――― MINT SAUCE FOR LAMB. (_After Goldsmith._) When man, less faithful than the colley, Deserts his love and goes astray, What art can make the maiden jolly? What charm can drive her grief away? The way her grief to overcome is, Instead of lying down to die, To claim three thou for breach of promise, And show her swain the reason why. _Judy_, August 24, 1881. ―――― WOMAN’S RIGHTS. [Mrs. Longshore Potts says that, if a woman fall in love, custom ought not to debar her making some proposal.] When lovely woman’s melancholy, And finds she’s in a love-sick way, Must she be bound by custom’s folly, And never more her love betray? No! Helen must her heart discover To Modus; but if all in vain, And he should scorn to be her lover, Her sole resource is――try again. _Fun_, March 25, 1885. ―――― THE OMNIBUS. (_By an Old Bachelor._) If lovely woman seeks to enter The crowded ’bus in which you ride, Have you the heart to discontent her. Or would you rather go outside? I’m brute enough, I dare to state, Although it may the lady vex, To keep my seat, and let her wait―― I’ve “bussed” too many of the sex. _Gossip_, May 16, 1885. ―――― When lovely woman pines in folly Because her hair is turning gray, What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can drive her grief away? The only art her woe to cover, To hide her age from every eye, To come the gum-game o’er her lover And to make her happy――is to dye! _Detroit Free Press_, August, 1885. ―――― The following, signed “By the Ghost of Goldsmith,” was picked up in the Queen’s Bench Division Court after the termination of the trial, Foli _v._ Bradshaw, that being an action for assault brought by the eminent singer, in May, 1884:―― “When lovely woman stoops to Foli, And lets her son with cudgels play, An action soon brings melancholy, And damages one has to pay.” The two other before-named poems by Goldsmith, which can be traced to a French source, are so similar in style that they may be both given together, followed by the French original:―― AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all of every sort, Give ear unto my song, And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran Whene’er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends; But, when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seemed both sore and sad To ev’ry Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That shew’d the rogues they ly’d; The man recover’d of the bite, The dog it was that dy’d. ―――― AN ELEGY. On the Glory of her Sex, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word―― _From those who spoke her praise_. The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor―― _Who left a pledge behind_. She strove the neighbourhood to please, With manners wondrous winning, And never followed wicked ways―― _Unless when she was sinning_. At church in silk and satin new, With hoop of monstrous size; She never slumbered in her pew―― _But when she shut her eyes_. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The King himself has followed her―― _When she has walk’d before_. But now her wealth, and finery fled, Her hangers on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead―― _Her last disorder, mortal_. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more, _She had not died to-day_! GOLDSMITH. ―――― The following _Chanson du Fameux la Galisse_, taken from _Ménagiana_, 1729, must have supplied hints for the construction of the foregoing poems:―― “LE FAMEUX LA GALISSE.” Messieurs, vous plait-il d’ouir L’air du fameux la Galisse, Il pourra vous rejouir, _Pourvû qu’il vous divertisse_. La Gallisse eut peu de bien, Pour soutenir sa naissance; Mais il ne manqua de rien, _Dès qu’il fut dans l’abondance_. Bien instruit dès le berçeau, Jamais, tant il fut honnête, Il ne mettoit son chapeau _Qu’il ne se couvrit la tête_. Il étoit affable et doux, De l’humeur de feu son père, Et n’entroit guère en courroux, _Si ce n’est dans la colere_. Il buvoit tous les matins Un doight tiré de la tonne, Et mangeant chez les voisins, _Il s’y trouvoit en personne_. Il vouloit dans ses repas Des mets exquis et fort tendres, Et faisoit son Mardi gras, _Toujours la veille des Cendres_. Ses valets étoient soigneux De le servir d’andouillettes, Et n’oublioient pas les œufs _Surtout dans les omelettes_. De l’inventeur du raisin Il révéroit la mémoire, Et pour bien gouter le vin, _Jugeoit qu’il en falloit boire_. Il disoit que le nouveau Avoit pour lui plus d’amorce, Et moins il y mettoit d’eau _Plus il y trouvoit de force_. Il consultoit rarement Hippocrate et sa doctrine, Et se purgeoit seulement, _Quand il prenoit médecine_. Au piquet par tout payis, Il jouoit suivant sa pante, Et comptoit quatre vingt dix, _Lorsqu’il marquoit un nonante_. Il savoit les autres jeux Qu’on joue à l’Académie, Et n’etoit pas malheureux _Tant qu’il gagnoit la partie_. On s’étonne sans raison D’une chose très commune; C’est qu’il vendit sa maison, _Il faloit qu’il en eut une_. Il aimoit à prendre l’air, Quand la saison étoit bonne, Et n’attendoit pas l’hyver, _Pour vendanger en automne_. Il épousa, ce dit on, Une vertueuse Dame; S’il avoit vêcu garçon, _Il n’auroit point eu de femme_. Il en fut toujours cheri, Elle n’étoit point jalouse; Si tot qu’il fut son mari, _Elle devint son épouse_. Il passa près de huit ans Avec elle, fort à l’aise, En eut jusqu’à huit enfans, _C’étoit la moitié de seize_. On dit que dans ses amours, Il fut caressé des belles, Que le suivirent toujours, _Tant qu’il marcha devant elles_. D’un air galant et badin, Il courtisoit sa Caliste, Sans jamais être chagrin _Qu’au moment qu’il etoit triste_. Il brilloit comme un Soleil, Sa Chevelure étoit blonde: Il n’eut pas eu son pareil, _S’il eût été seul au monde_. Il eût des talens divers, Meme on assure une chose, Quand il écrivoit en vers, _Qu’il n’écrivoit pas en prose_. En matiére de rébus Il n’avoit pas son semblable: S’il eût fait des impromtus, _Il en eût été capable_. Il savoit un triolet Bien mieux que sa patenôtre: Quand il chantoit un couplet, _Il n’en chantoit pas un autre_. Il expliqua doctement La Physique et la Morale. Et soutint qu’une jument _Etoit toujours une cavale_. Par un discours sérieux Il prouva que la berluë, Et les autres maux des yeux _Sont contraires à la vûe_. Chacun alors applaudit A sa science inouïe, Tout homme qui l’entendit, _N’avoit das perdu l’ouïe_. Il prétendit en un mois Lire toute l’Ecriture, Et l’auroit lue une fois, _S’il en eût fait la lecture_. Par son esprit, et son air Il s’aquit le don de plaire: Le Roi l’eut fait Duc et Pair _S’il avoit voulu le faire_. Mieux que tout autre il savoit A la Cour jouer son role, Et jamais lorsqu’il buvoit _Ne disoit une parole_. Il choisissoit prudemment De deux choses la meilleure, Et répétoit fréquemment, _Ce qu’il disoit à toute heure_. Il fut à la verité Un danseur assez vulgaire; Mais il n’eut pas mal chanté _S’il avoit voulu se taire_. Il eut la goute à Paris Long tems cloué sur sa couche En y jettant les hauts cris, _Il ouvroit bien fort la bouche_. Lorsqu’en sa maison des champs Il vivoit libre et tranquille, On auroit perdu son temps _De le chercher à la ville_. On raconte, que jamais Il ne pouvoit se résoudre A charger ses pistolets _Quand il n’avoit pas de poudre_. Un jour il fut assiné Devant son Juge ordinaire. S’il eût été condamné _Il eut perdu son affaire_. On ne le vit jamais las, Ni sujet à la paresse, Tandis qu’il ne dormoit pas, _On tient qu’il veillait sans cesse_. Il voyageoit volontiers, Courant partout le Royaume Quand il étoit à Poitiers _Il n’étoit pas à Vendôme_. Il se plaisoit en bateau, Et soit en paix, soit en guerre, Il alloit toujours par eau _A moins qu’il n’alla par terre_. Une fois s’étant fourré Dans un profond marécage, Il y seroit demeuré, _S’il n’eut pu trouver passage_. Il fuioit asses l’excês, Mais dans les cas d’importance, Quand il se mettoit en frais, _Il se mettoit en dépense_. Dans un superbe tournoi Pret a fournir sa carrière, Il parut devant le Roi, _Il n’etoit donc pas derrière_. Monté sur un cheval noir, Les Dames le reconnurent, Et c’est la qu’il se fit voir, _A tout ceux qui l’apperçurent_. Mais bien qu’il fût vigoureux, Bien qu’il fit le Diable à quatre Il ne renversa que ceux _Qu’il eut l’addresse d’abattre_. C’etoit un homme de cœur Insatiable de gloire; Lorsqu’il etoit le vainqueur _Il remportoit la victoire_. Les places qu’il attaquoit A peine osoient se défendre, Et jamais il ne manquoit _Celles qu’on lui voyait prendre_. Un devin pour deux testons Lui dit d’une voix hardie, Qu’il mourroit de là les monts, _S’il mourrait en Lombardie_. Il y mourut ce Heros, Personne aujourd’hui n’en doute; Si tôt qu’il eut les yeux clos, _Aussitot il ne vit goute_. Il fut par un triste sort, Blessé d’une main cruelle: On croit, puisqu’il en est mort, _Que la plaie etoit mortelle_. Regretté de ses soldats, Il mourut digne d’envie Et le jour de son trépas _Fut le dernier de sa vie_. J’ai lu dans les vieux écrits Qui contiennent son histoire, Qu’il iroit en Paradis _S’il etoit en Purgatoire_. ―――― Some verses of this song were translated, and published in _The Mirror_, November 8, 1823. They do not adhere very closely to the original. THE HAPPY MAN. La Gallisse now I wish to touch, Droll air! if I can strike it, I’m sure the song will please you much; That is, if you should like it. La Gallisse was indeed, I grant, Not used to any dainty, When he was born――but could not want, As long as he had plenty. Instructed with the greatest care, He always was well-bred, And never used a hat to wear, But when ’twas on his head. His temper was exceeding good, Just of his father’s fashion; And never quarrels broil’d his blood, Except when in a passion. His mind was on devotion bent, He kept with care each high day, And Holy Thursday always spent, The day before Good Friday. He liked good claret very well, I just presume to think it; For ere its flavour he could tell, He thought it best to drink it. Than doctors more he loved the cook, Though food would make him gross; And never any physic took, But when he took a dose. Oh, happy, happy is the swain The ladies so adore; For many followed in his train, Whene’er he walk’d before. Bright as the sun his flowing hair In golden ringlets shone; And no one could with him compare, If he had been alone. His talents I cannot rehearse, But every one allows, That whatsoe’er he wrote in verse No one could call it prose. He argued with precision nice, The learned all declare; And it was his decision wise, No horse could be a mare. His powerful logic would surprise, Amuse, and much delight. He prov’d that dimness of the eyes Was hurtful to the sight. They lik’d him much――so it appears, Most plainly――who preferred him; And those did never want their ears, Who any time had heard him. He was not always right, ’tis true, And then he must be wrong; But none had found it out, he knew, If he had held his tongue. Whene’er a tender tear he shed, T’was certain that he wept; And he would lay awake in bed, Unless, indeed, he slept. In tilting everybody knew His very high renown; Yet no opponents he o’er-threw, But those that he knocked down. At last they smote him in the head―― What hero e’re fought all? And when they saw that he was dead, They knew the wound was mortal. And when at last he lost his breath, It closed his every strife; For that sad day that sealed his death, Deprived him of his life. ―――― Ménage introduces _Le Chanson de la Galisse_ without any other explanation than that it relates to the adventures of an imaginary character, he does not mention the Author’s name, nor does he refer to any other poem having any resemblance to it. Yet there was a “Chanson” written in exactly the same style and metre, recording (in burlesque it is true) the adventures of a brave French officer, named La Palice. And what makes it more remarkable is, that this poem was written by a friend of M. Gilles de Ménage, the grave and religious Bernard de la Monnoye, who conceived the idea of personifying nonsensical truths in his _Complaint upon the Life and Death of La Palice_; careless of attaching popular ridicule to a name which should excite only recollections of heroic and military virtue. Concerning this _Chanson de la Palice_ there was a long article in _Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal_, as far back as July, 1845, from which the following notes are extracted:―― “Thanks to this strange production, we know that the famous La Palice died in losing his life, and that he would not have had his equal had he been alone in the world. Doubtless it is satisfactory to know that he could never make up his mind to load his pistols when he had no powder; and that when he wrote verse he did not write prose; or that while drinking he never spoke a word. These are certainly notable details concerning the habits and character of this great man, but it is also certain that La Palice had greater claims to admiration which may be brought to light in illustrating some stanzas of the biographical ballad. The song begins thus:―― ‘Please you, gentlemen, to hear The song of La Palice; It surely will delight you all, Provided that it please,’ Besides this proposition, the historian would have done well to tell us that La Palice was of noble race, for his grandfather, an earlier Jacques de Chabannes, after valiantly defending Castillon against Talbot, the English Achilles, died of his wounds at the siege of this city, which, two years afterwards (17th July, 1453), cost the life of his illustrious enemy. ‘La Palice but little wealth To his renown could bring; And when abundance was his lot, He lacked no single thing.’ Abundance of glory, of honours, of treasures, of war on battle fields; this was surely what the poet meant to say. He ought to have been rich indeed, when three sovereigns successively invested him with the titles of marshal of France, governor of Bourbonnais, of Auvergne, of Forez and the Lyonnais. ‘He was versed in all the games Played at the academy; And never was unfortunate When he won the victory.’ Those which he gained are faithfully chronicled in history. First, stands Marignan in 1515, next Fontarabia, in 1521; then Bicocca, in Lombardy, where La Palice, being second in command, made incredible exertions to recover the fortunes of the day; and last, Marseilles, which went to sleep one night Spanish, and woke up French the next morning, because a great Captain, Chabannes de la Palice, had scaled her walls, and effaced by dint of courage the shame with which the desertion of Bourbon had tarnished the name of French gentlemen. ‘To do and dare in his career, He readily inclined; And when he stood before the king, He was not, sure, behind. Fate dealt to him a cruel blow. And stretched him on the ground; And ’tis believed that since he died, It was a mortal wound. His death was sore and terrible, Upon a stone his head; He would have died more easily Upon a feather bed.’ Chabannes made a sortie with a handful of brave fellows from the fort which he defended against the Spanish army, and saw all those who followed fall around him. A Spanish soldier climbs over the barrier of corpses piled before him, aims a tremendous blow at his head, beneath which the brave La Palice fell senseless to the earth, ‘Deplored and envied by his braves, He shut his eyes to strife; And we are told his day of death Was the last of his life.’ ――――:o:―――― THE RIGHT AND MARVELLOUS HISTORY OF JOHN SMITH. John Smith he was a guardsman bold, A stouter never fought; He would have been a grenadier, But he was one foot short. But to a man of John Smith’s mind The love of power had charms; So when his captain ordered him, John Smith order’d his arms. An active, bustling blade was he, At drill and eke at mess, Who never thought to stand at ease When Captains called out “dress,” Attentive always to the word, It never was his wont To turn his eyes or right or left―― When Captains cried “eyes front!” Though he was ever thought correct, Once, during an assault, He ne’er advanced a single foot―― ’Cause he was told to halt. But still he was not coward called, Why,――we can soon detect; His foes all fell dead at his feet,―― When his shots took effect. But tired of knapsack and of gun And firing in platoons, The infantry he quitted when―― He entered the dragoons. His saddle now became his home, His horse and he seemed one; And he was ne’er known to dismount,―― Unless he first got on. How brave and bold a man he was, From one small fact is clear; Whole regiments fled before him when,―― He followed in their rear. He was a steady soldier then. And sober too, of course, And ne’er into a tap-room went,―― Mounted upon his horse. In fact his conduct was so good, His Captains all confess He never got into a scrape,―― Though always in a mess. Though as to what fights he’d been in Men differed,――none denied That the last battle he e’er fought Was that in which he died. The soldiers there who saw him fall, Exclaimed, as with one breath, “Unless his wound’s a mortal one, It will not cause his death.” Unlike most epitaphs, John Smith’s Nought but the truth did tell; But _this_ none ever stopped to read, Who had not learn’d to spell. “Stop, passenger, and weep;――one tear To him you can’t refuse, Who stood――high in his regiment, And five feet in his shoes.” _The Comic Magazine_, 1834. ―――― A HISTORY. There was a man, so legends say, And he――how strange to tell!―― Was born upon the very day, Whereon his birthday fell. He was a baby first. And then He was his parents’ joy; But was a man soon after, when He ceased to be a boy. And when he got to middle life, To marry was his whim; The self-same day he took a wife, Some woman wedded him. None saw him to the other side Of Styx by Charon ferried; But ’tis conjectured that he died Because he has been buried. TOM HOOD, the younger. _The Century Magazine_ for November, 1883, contained an _Elegy on Mrs. Grimes_, written in the same vein of humour as Goldsmith’s Elegy on Madam Blaize. ――――:o:―――― DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BED-CHAMBER. Where the Red Lion staring o’er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert’s butt, and Parson’s black champaign. Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane; There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug; A window patch’d with paper, lent a ray, That dimly shew’d the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread: The humid wall with paltry pictures spread: The Royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William shew’d his lamp-black face: The morn was cold, he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire: With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was scor’d, And five cracked tea-cups dress’d the chimney-board; A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay A cap by night――a stocking all the day! OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ―――― BEAUTIES OF THE GREAT MASTERS. THE STREET ARTIST. Where sturdy beggars, blocking up the way, Molest each passing pilgrim that can pay; Where generous souls, unused to sights of pain, Toss half-pence to the cripples in the lane; There on a wintry morning, clad in rags, The Kid found Tompkins shivering on the flags―― A ragged beard disguised his sallow cheeks, Which plainly showed he hadn’t shaved for weeks; And o’er the pavement――green, and blue, and red―― In coloured chalk, his paltry pictures spread; Maxims of charity were there in view, And next a bunch of grapes the artist drew, Then half a mackerel, (or perhaps a plaice), And great Napoleon showed his well-known face―― The morn was cold――he takes with down-cast eye The offerings of the pitying passers-by―― How changed the scene, when, to his home returned, He meets his pals, and boasts the tin he’s earned―― With steaks and beer his vigour is restored, And crack companions grace his festive board―― He dons a coat――his rags he throws away―― A swell by night――a beggar all the day. _The Month._ By Albert Smith and John Leech. Dec. 1851. ――――:o:―――― THE DESERTED VILLAGE. The following imitation was originally published by Messrs. Parker, of 377, Strand, London, but no date is given. THE DOOMED VILLAGE. A Poem, dedicated to the Right Honourable John Bright. “Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,” Could thy true Poet visit earth again, How would his patriot spirit grieve to see A hundred Auburns doomed to die like thee! The decent church abandoned to the owl, The ruined parsonage, the roofless school, The village of its preacher’s voice bereft, The little flock without a shepherd left, Without “the man to all the country dear,” Whose part it was to teach, to warn, to cheer; “Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. Still in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.” Will then the State suppress the godly man, And bid him buy his dwelling if he can, That hospitable roof and open door Sought by the friendless, loved by all the poor, Steal the small stipend from a treasure paid Which pious ages gifts to God had made, Leave the bewildered peasant tempest-tost, His faith unaided and his altar lost, To quit for distant lands his long-loved home, Or helpless sink beneath the foot of Rome? Where shall he look for succour? shall he trust That Royal womanhood will still be just? Will their dear Queen their loyal love disown, And let her statesmen drive them from her throne? The man of State who wants a heart to feel Wants that which most concerns the public weal; No nice distinction will he stoop to make Between the power to seize, and right to take. “The Lord forbid it,” cry the poor “that we Should give our fathers’ heritage to thee.” False allegations then a pretext yield; And Ahab takes possession of the field. Wild as the wind is such a Statesman’s mind; No law can fix him, and no treaty bind; He burns the poor man’s charter with its seal, And bids him trust in voluntary zeal, Go beg the bread that has been all his own, Along a road untravelled and unknown, Ardent alike to pare a Church away, And lay a tax for charities to pay. Why are so many Auburns doomed to groan? Whither are Equity and Pity flown? Are all the virtues melted down in one, Of neutral colour much resembling none? A large, loose, LIBERALITY of mind, True to no faith, not generous, just, nor kind. Time was, each Virtue was distinctly known, And Faith and Justice sat beside the throne; Time was, when Justice owned prescriptive right, And Policy disdained to side with spite, Not hounding on the envious pack which pant To tear away the bone they do not want, Ere yet she summed each ancient grievance up, As if they all still mantled in the cup, And loved by antiquated tales to shew, How Britain always has been Erin’s foe; Till Erin dreams she feels a present grief, And seeks in self-inflicting blows relief. Behold! a glorious band by Heaven inspired, By many hearts revered, by all admired; In Erin’s sky as burning lights they shone; Will Erin cease to claim them for her own? Will she no more repeat her Usher’s[7] name, Of old ascendant on the rolls of fame? Will she her Bedell’s[8] pious memory blot, With the blest book he gave the Irish cot? Will it grate harshly on her altered ear, Of Taylor’s[9] golden eloquence to hear? Will she no longer boast that God had given “To Berkeley[10] all the virtues under heaven?” Deems she what was, and is, should ne’er have been, The Norman Conquest, and the British Queen? Are these the thoughts that vex the Celtic heart? Beneath such wrongs do Erin’s millions smart, The signs and records of an alien band, Which troubles with its rule a peaceful land? “It is not we who troubling Liffey’s stream Foul it with blood,” the threatened sheep exclaim; “It was your fathers then that fouled it so,” Retorts the wolf “a hundred years ago.” The shepherd comes; he hears the distant howl Of the wild beasts that o’er the country prowl; In his right hand he wields a butcher’s knife, And bids the lamb lie still and yield its life, An offering to peace, a needful feast, To stay the hunger of the savage beast. The neighbouring swains, to whom for help it cries, Applaud the prudence of their Chief’s device, The struggles of the bleeding victim mock, And join the wolf in ravaging the flock. But oh! may Heaven avert the fatal end, And Britain’s heart to juster counsels bend, Raise many a champion through the land to lead A growing host for poverty to plead, The sacred voice of conscience wake within, Forbid the fatal policy of sin, Leave the just laws to deal with factious hate, Calm down the public mind, and save the State. Pause, Britain, pause, ere yet advanced too far Thy hand lets slip the dogs of civil war, Ere yet the vultures hovering in the sky On the self-immolated quarry fly. So shall pure Faith’s long-hallowed altar stand! Still unprofaned by state-craft’s ruthless hand; So shall the threatened Auburn cease to weep, Peace be restored, and passion lulled to sleep; So shall the flood of Ultramontane pride, By justice checked, within its banks subside; So shall the Candle, which the Lord has lit, Revived and cherished, well its place befit, And through the time to come serenely bright Shine forth a beacon-flame of Gospel light. Immortal Light, that can’st alone control The brutal instincts of the savage soul, ’Tis thine to teach the murderous bands of strife The deep significance of human life, Teach the wild untaught Kerne who knows not God, The awful sanctions of HIS penal code; Teach Faith her hope and end in LOVE to read, The height and depth of every Christian’s Creed. ―――― THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet London, loveliest village of the plain, Where wealth and fashion cheered the labouring swain, Where smiling spring the earliest visit paid, And the rich summer dinner-tables laid. Dear lovely bowers of indolence and ease, Seats of my youth when every card could please, How often have I done thy park so green Where humble iron chairs endeared the scene; How often have I paused the throng to tell, Th’ unnoticed clerk, the cultivated swell, The never-failing talk, the riders’ skill, The indecent duke that topt the neighbouring hill, The moving row with spots beneath the shade For timid horseman’s ease and whisperings made: How often have I blest the late-born day, When play remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village swells from dinner free, Led up the sports that fashion loves to see, While much flirtation circled in the shade, The young ones spooning as the old surveyed, And many a galop frolicked o’er the ground, And valses, lancers, and quadrilles went round; And still as each repeated partner tired, Succeeding suppers one more turn inspired. The dancing man, who simply sought renown By leading all the cotillons in town, The swain mistrustful of his smutty face, While secret riddles tittered round the place, The younger son’s shy sidelong looks of love, The chaperons who would those looks reprove, These were thy charms, sweet village, sports like these With sweet succession taught e’en town to please, These round thy bowers their genial influence shed, These were thy charms, but all those charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy swells withdrawn, Within thy doors upholsterers are seen, And water-carts alone the park keep green; Almighty dulness grasps thy whole domain, Of all thy people none with thee remain. No more thy babbling talk reflects the day, But in the country winds its shallow way; Along thy park a solitary guest, A sole policeman now laments the rest, Amid thy drawing-rooms the spider toils, Thy draperies the moth relentless spoils; Gone are thy dinners, dances, parties all, And early bed o’ertops the byegone ball, And trembling, lest they last should join the band, Far, far away, thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey, Where working men increase and swells decay, Leaguers and roughs may flourish or may fade, Hardy may make them as Walpole has made, But fashionable swells, their country’s pride, Once out of town can never be supplied. _The Tomahawk_, September 7, 1867. ―――― The following Parody appeared in Vol. XVIII. of _The Mirror_: “Lord John Russell, even amidst all the turmoil of Office has contributed:―― LONDON IN SEPTEMBER (Not in 1831), By Lord John Russell. (After _The Traveller_, by _Oliver Goldsmith_). “Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, A single horseman passes Rotten row; In Brookes’s sits one quidnunc to peruse The broad dull sheet which tells the lack of news. At White’s a lonely Brummell lifts his glass To see two empty Hackney Coaches pass; The timid housemaid, issuing forth, can dare To take her lover’s arm in Grosvenor square. From shop deserted hastes the prentice dandy, And seeks――Oh bliss――the Molly――_a tempora fandi_. Meantime the battered pavement is at rest, And waiters wait in vain to spy a guest, Thomas himself, Cook, Hanen, Fenton, Long, Have all left town to join the Margate throng. The wealthy tailor on the Sussex shore Displays and drives his blue barouche and four, The Peer who made him rich, with dog and gun, Toils o’er a Scottish moor, and braves a scorching sun.” ――――:o:―――― THE HERMIT. This favourite poem originally appeared in “The Vicar of Wakefield,” which was published in the year 1765. Dr. Goldsmith was accused of having borrowed the idea of the ballad from “The Friar of Orders Gray,” and in June, 1767, he sent the following reply to the St. James’s Chronicle: “A correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published sometime ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it.” In confirmation of this statement Bishop Percy afterwards added a note to “The Friar of Orders Gray,” stating that it was only just to declare that Goldsmith’s Poem was written first, and that if there had been any imitation in the case, they would be found to be both indebted to the beautiful old ballad _Gentle Herdsman_. This ballad is reprinted below, with Goldsmith’s _The Hermit_, and a few verses from Bishop Percy’s _Friar of Orders Gray_. It will be seen that although the poems have several points of resemblance, yet each has a distinct individuality of its own. “GENTLE HERDSMAN TELL TO ME.” Gentle herdsman, tell to me, Of curtesy I thee pray―― Unto the _towne_ of _Wallsingham_ Which is the right and ready way? “Unto the _towne_ of Walsingham, The way is hard for to be gone, And very crooked are those _pathes_ For you to find out all alone.” Were the miles doubled _thrise_ And the way never so ill, It were not enough for mine offence; It is so _grevous_ and so ill. “Thy _yeares_ are young, thy face is _faire_, Thy wits are _weake_, thy thoughts are _greene_; Time hath not given thee leave as yet For to commit so great a _sinne_!” Yes, herdsman, yes, _soe_ wou’dst thou say, If thou knewest so much as I; My wits, and _thoughtes_, and all the rest, Have well deserved for to dye. I am not what I _seeme_ to _bee_, My cloths and _sexe doe_ differ _fare_; I am a woman, woe _is mee_! Born to _greeffe_, and irksome care. For my beloved, and well beloved, My wayward cruelty could kill; And though my _teares_ will naught avail, Most _dearely_ I bewail him still. He was the flower of noble wights, None ever more sincere _colde bee_, Of _comelye_ mien and shape he was, And _tenderlye_ he loved _mee_. When thus I _sawe_ he loved me well, I grew so _proude_ his _paine_ to see, That I, who did not know _myselfe_, Thought _scorne_ of such a youth as _hee_. And grew so coy, and nice to please, As women’s _lookes_ are often _soe_, He might not _kisse_, nor hand forsooth, _Unlesse_ I willed him _soe_ to _doe_. Thus being _wearyed_ with _delayes_, To see I _pityed_ not his _greeffe_, He goes him to a _secret_ place, And there he dyed without _releeffe_. And for his sake these _weedes_ I _weare_, And sacrifice my tender age; And every day I’ll beg my bread, To _undergoe_ this pilgrimage. Thus every day I’ll fast and _praye_, And ever will do till I _dye_; And get me to some _secrett_ place, For so did _hee_, and _soe_ will I. Now, gentle herdsman, ask no more, But keep my _secretts_ I thee pray; Unto the _towne_ of Wallsingham Shew _me the_ right and _readye waye_. “Now _goe_ thy _wayes_, and God before, For he must ever guide thee still; Turn down the dale the _righte_ hand _pathe_, And so, fair pilgrim, fare thee well.” ――――:o:―――― THE HERMIT. “Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. “For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.” “Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries, “To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. “Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still: And though my portion is but scant I give it with good will. “Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate’er my cell bestows; My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. “No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them: “But from the mountain’s grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. “Then, pilgrim, turn thy cares forego; All earthborn cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.” Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell: The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the neighbouring poor, And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master’s care; The wicket, opening with a latch Received the harmless pair. And now when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The Hermit trimmed his little fire, And cheered his pensive guest: And spread his vegetable store, And gaily prest, and smil’d; And skill’d in legendary lore The lingering hours beguil’d. Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries; The cricket churrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To sooth the stranger’s woe; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spy’d, With answ’ring care opprest: “And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry’d “The sorrows of thy breast? “From better habitations spurn’d, Reluctant dost thou rove? Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d, Or unregarded love? “Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. “And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep? “And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair-one’s jest; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle’s nest. “For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex” he said But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray’d. Surpris’d he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view; Like colours o’er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast Alternate spread alarms: The lovely stranger stands confest, A maid in all her charms. “And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn.” she cried; “Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude Where Heaven and you reside. “But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray: Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. “My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark’d as mine He had but only me. “To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber’d suitors came; Who praised me for imputed charms, And felt, or feign’d a flame. “Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d, But never talk’d of love. “In humblest, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor pow’r had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. “And when, beside me in the dale, He carol’d lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale, And music to the grove.[11] “The blossom opening to the day, The dews of Heav’n refin’d, Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind. “The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me, Their constancy was mine. “For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch’d my heart I triumph’d in his pain. “Till quite dejected with my scorn He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. “But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay: I’ll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. “And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I’ll lay me down and die; ’Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.” “Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit cried, And clasped her to his breast: The wandering fair one turned to chide;―― ’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d. “Turn Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor’d to love and thee. “Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev’ry care resign: And shall we never, never part, My life――my all that’s mine? “No never, from this hour to part We’ll live and love so true, The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin’s too.” ――――:o:―――― THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. This poem is given in Bishop Percy’s _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_ with the following note:―― “Dispersed through Shakespeare’s plays are innumerable little fragments of Ancient ballads, the entire copies of which could not be recovered. Many of these being of the most beautiful and pathetic simplicity, the Editor was tempted to select some of them, and with a few supplemental stanzas to connect them together, and form them into a little tale, which is here submitted to the reader’s candour.” It was a friar of orders gray Walkt forth to tell his beades; And he met with a lady faire Clad in a pilgrime’s weedes. “Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see?” “And how should I know your true love From many another one?” “O, by his cockle hat and staff, And by his sandal shoone.”[12] “But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so faire to view, His flaxen locks that sweetly curl’d, And eyne of lovely blue.” O, lady he is dead and gone! Lady, he’s dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone. “Within these holy cloysters long He lanquisht, and he dyed, Lamenting of a ladyes love, And ’playning of her pride.” * * * * * “And art thou dead, thou gentle youth! And art thou dead and gone! And dids’t thou dye of love of me! Break, cruel heart of stone!” “O, weep not, lady, weep not soe; Some ghostly comfort seek; Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Ne tears bedew thy cheek.” “O, do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth, That e’er wan ladyes love. And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, I’ll evermore weep and sigh; For thee I only wisht to live, For thee I wish to dye.” (Eleven stanzas here omitted.) * * * * * “O, stay me not, thou holy friar; O stay me not, I pray; No drizzly rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away.” “Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears; For see, beneath this gown of gray Thy own true-love appears. Here forc’d by grief, and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought; And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought. But haply, for my year of grace[13] Is not yet past away, Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay. Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part. ―――― THE HERMIT. _A Prophetic Ballad._ “Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way To where some shanty cheers the vale With hospitable ray. “For as, forlorn and lost, I tread This weary waste, and slow, My skirts immeasurably spread Impede me as I go.” “Welcome, sweet girl!” the Hermit cries, “My roof shall give thee shade; I call thee girl, although mine eyes Behold no tender maid. “But, exiled from the world, I find―― However old she be―― That any one of womankind Is as a girl to me. “A kiss I beg, just one! what no? Is kissing then so wrong? Man wants a little here below Though not perhaps, for long. “Hold! hold!” the wand’rer cried, “nor dare My modesty invade!” Fury inspired the conscious fair, And fury her betrayed. That bristling cheek, that stubborn breast, Those thewy, threatening arms! The lonely stranger stands confest―― A man in all his charms. “And, ah! excuse a stranger rude, A hunted wretch,” he cried; “Indeed I hope I don’t intrude Where you in peace reside. “But pity a poor trader who Has mixed in public fray, And learned what politics can do In leading men astray, “My chief the Land League party led In Parliament and out, And by his side I fought and bled With constancy devout. “Pretenders to the Chiefship came To win me from his band; But still I loved but Parnell’s name And bow’d to his command. “And length to ’scape arrest, one morn He deemed it best to hide; And sought some solitude forlorn In secret, where he died. “Though ‘wanted’ too I fled uncaught In feminine array And seek the solitude he sought To stretch me where he lay. “There, my identity thus hid I’ll lay me down and die For Ireland so my Parnell did And so for him will I.” “Forbid it Heaven!” the Hermit cried, And clasped him to his breast The wondering stranger turn’d to chide ’Twas Parnell’s self that prest! “Turn Joey Biggar, ever dear! My comrade turn to see Thine own, thy long-lost Parnell here, True to the League and thee!” _The St. James’s Gazette_, February 28, 1881. ――――:o:―――― THE SPEAKER’S DINNER. The following political paraphrase of Oliver Goldsmith’s pleasing poem _Retaliation_, is taken from an anonymous collection, published in 1814, entitled “Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, composed by several of our most celebrated Poets, but not published in any former Edition of their Works.” Several pieces from this collection have already been quoted in _Parodies_; they have nearly all a strong party bias in favour of the Tory Government of the day. The Politicians alluded to in the poem are, the Earl of Liverpool, Premier 1812 to 1827, died in 1828; Viscount Castlereagh (afterwards Marquis of Londonderry) Foreign Secretary, committed suicide in 1822; Lord Grenville, died in 1834; the Right Hon. George Canning author of the witty parodies in the “Anti-jacobin,” died 1827; Sir Francis Burdett, an opposition M.P., father of Lady Burdett Coutts, died 1844; Viscount Sidmouth, died 1844; the Right Hon. John Wilson Croker, died 1857; Samuel Whitbread, M.P., died 1815; the Right Hon. R. B. Sheridan, died 1816; Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough, died 1818; William Cobbett, M.P., for Oldham, died 1835; and Robert Waithman, M.P., Alderman and Lord Mayor of London, who died in 1833. Of late, when the pic-nics their parties invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united; If the Speaker will get us the loaves and the fishes, We’ll serve up _ourselves_ for the rest of the dishes. Our L――v――rp――l’s beef at the top let us find, Old England’s famed diet for time out of mind: Let C――strl――gh’s turtle at bottom be placed, Restoring the system and pleasing the taste: And Gr――nv――lle’s fat haunch in the middle be put on, The rump very large, but a taint in the mutton, Our C――nn――ng is salt; for his talents are such That they heighten the taste of whatever they touch, While B――rd――tt resembles the onion that throws A vulgar effluvium wherever it goes. With a chicken well boiled, gentle S――dm――th will treat us, And Cr――k――r shall serve for our Irish potatoes: Brown stout shall be Wh――tbr――d, the dregs of the cup, And Shr――d――n, spruce, not sufficiently up. Push about, Mr. Speaker――I’ll sit, if I’m able, Till all these grave statesmen sink under the table; And while they are lying unconscious before us, We’ll talk of the men who have lorded it o’er us. Now L――v――rp――l’s Earl lies along at our feet, Who was eloquent often, and always discreet. If failings he had, he has left us in doubt, Though the Whigs spared no trouble in finding them out, But Scandal has said, he had more admiration For old-fashioned practice, than fresh speculation. Here sleeps the bold Wh――tbr――d, whose temper was such That we scarce can admire or condemn it too much: Who, born for high purposes, lowered his mind, And gave to a mob what was meant for mankind: Who, proud in his nature, still wearied his throat In wheedling a cobler to lend him a vote: Who, too wild for utility, wander’d so far That his passion for peace kept him always at war: Though equal to most things, for all things unfit; Too pert for a statesman, too coarse for a wit: Untrue to the Talents, uncouth to the Regent, And fond of all changes, howe’er inexpedient:―― So ’twas always his fate to find fault out of season, Most strongly to speak, and most weakly to reason. Here C――tl――r――gh lies, with a mind like the mint, Exhaustless and sterling the stores that were in’t. His well-bred demeanour still bore him along Unhurt through a roaring and riotous throng, Where staunch to his duty, yet slow to offend, He softened the means, but to strengthen the end. Would you know, more at large, by what talents he shone? His country will tell you――for all was her own. Here slumbers poor Sh――rry, whose fate I must sigh at! Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet. What spirits were his, how elastic and subtle! Now cracking a jest, and now cracking a bottle! Now swift as an archer to tickle and gall, Now strong as a phalanx to shake and appal! In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wished him full ten times a day at old Nick, But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wished to have Dick back again. Here S――dm――th reposes, whose virtues and parts Were a light and a model to well-ordered hearts: A friend of religion, who made it his care To live as men ought to be, not as they are. Yet perhaps he has sometimes exceeded the line, And wire-drawn his measures too piously fine. To a coming millenium has fashioned his views, Or the ancient theocracy marked for the Jews. Say, where has his genius this malady caught, Of reasoning on man, as if man had no fault? Say, was it, that tired of applying his mind To estimate coolly the mass of mankind, Quite sick of pursuing each versatile elf, At last he grew lazy, and judged from himself? Here B――rd――tt retires, from his rows to relax, The scourge of all kings and the king of all quacks. O come, ye quack scribblers, and patriots by trade; Come and weep o’er the spot where your member is laid! When, dreading the Tow’r, he distracted the town, I fear’d for its safety, I fear’d for my own; But wanting the aid of this giant detractor, The press may yet cease its unclean manufacture; The lightnings of G――rr――w may slumber at length, And the thunder-toned justice of Ell――nb’r――gh’s strength; The Whites[14] and the Hunts[14] shall desist from sedition, No leader remaining to spur their ambition; Pale Envy her taper shall quench to a spark, And C――bb――tt meet W――thm――n, and wail in the dark! Here sleeps my Lord Gr――nv――lle, describe him who can, A compression of all that was solid in man. For bottom, confess’d without rival to shine: For head, if not first, in the very first line, Yet, with pow’rs thus confess’d, and a lofty condition, He was duped by his own over-weening ambition; Like Satan of old from authority fell, And left service in Heaven for empire in Hell. In foreign concerns he was skill’d to a wonder: ’Twas only at home he was fated to blunder: For, straining too far to secure the command, He cut off all hope from himself and his band, Invited to pow’r, yet too proud to come in, Unless he could storm what ’twas easy to win. He cast his old friends, as a huntsman his pack―― But found not the secret to whistle them back, He loved popularity, swallow’d what came, And the puffs of the papers he fancied was fame; Till the fall of his cabinet humbled their tone, And the shouts of their extacy died in a groan. Long lauded by Journals and minor Reviews, He paid for their praises by sending them news. Pamphlet-writers! Reporters! and Critics so grave! What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave! How aptly, on _both_ sides, the eulogy fitted, When you were be-Junius’d, and he was be-Pitted; But peace to his errors, whatever his fate, For his former deserts had been many and great: The measures of Pitt, as matured by his skill, Shall plead his apology, happen what will; His lore and his science shall Shelburne approve, And Windham and Burke be his colleagues above. Here Cr――k――r reclines, a most smart, clever creature, And ev’n opposition allow him good nature. He was true to his country, his friends, and his king: Yet one fault he had! a most scandalous thing, Perhaps you may ask, was he wanting in spirit? Oh no, that was never an Irish demerit. Perhaps a too bigotted aristocrat? I do not intend to impeach him of that. Perhaps he would trust to the chance of the day, And so became careless and indolent? Nay, Then what was his failing? Come, come, let us know it―― He was――could he help it?――by nature _a poet_! Here C――nn――ing is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a brighter or better behind: His speeches were brilliant, resistless, and grand, His character cordial, attaching, and bland: Still born to improve us in every part, His wisdom our judgment, his genius our heart. The terror of coxcombs, the wonder of wits, He could hit all their blots, he could ward all their hits; When they blunder’d, and thunder’d, and smarted, and swore, He but quizz’d them the quicker, and cut them the more!―― [Illustration] THE HERMIT OF VAUXHALL.[15] (_A Ballad after Oliver Goldsmith._) Turn, gentle hermit of Vauxhall, And let me know the way In which, within that cavern small, You pass your time away. There’s nothing but a little lamp, A pitcher and a cat! The place must be extremely damp―― Why don’t you wear a hat? No chaff, my son, the hermit cries, But walk your chalks along; Your path to the rotunda lies―― They’re going to sing a song. Father, I care not for the strain Of that young girl in blue, But, if you please, I will remain, And have a chat with you. My son, you surely wish to hear The music of the band; But if you stop――a drop of beer I think you ought to stand. Father, to grant what you require, I’ll not a moment fail; Here, waiter, bring the holy friar A pint of Burton ale. The waiter brought the welcome draught, I took a little sup; The liquor then the hermit quaff’d, He fairly mopped it up. Father, I cried, now if you please, Philosophy we’ll talk―― As the wind murmurs through the trees, Skirting the long dark walk. My son, forbear, exclaimed the sage, Nor on me make a call―― My life is but a pilgrimage From Lambeth to Vauxhall. At eve when shops their shutters shut, And tolls the curfew bell, I quit my room in the New Cut, To sit within this cell. A friendly ounce of Cheshire cheese My landlady provides, Save, what to give the public please, I’ve nothing, son, besides. Father, your salary, of course, You must receive, I said; Your sitting here is not by force: How do you get your bread? The sage replied, Alas, my son, I light the lamps by day―― The hermit’s work, at evening done, Brings me no extra pay. And get you cheese alone to eat, I asked the good old man. Sometimes, he said, I buy a treat From baked potato can. The luxury sometimes I bring With butter――a small lump, With water from the crystal spring That rises ’neath our pump. Father, I cried, your tale is long, You tire my patience quite; I’m off to hear the comic song, Lull-li-e-tee, good night, GILBERT A. A’BECKETT. From _George Cruikshank’s Table Book_, 1845. ――――:o:―――― In Scribner’s Magazine for 1881 appeared a set of variations on “Home, Sweet Home,” treated in the different styles of Swinburne, Bret Harte, Austin Dobson, Walt Whitman and Oliver Goldsmith. This amusing contribution has since been included by its Author, Mr. H. C. Bunner, in his pretty little Volume, entitled “Airs from Arcady and elsewhere,” published by Mr. C. Hutt. HOME, SWEET HOME. (As it might have been constructed in 1744. Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and Alexander Pope, at 52, the second.) Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise: Lift us from earth, and draw us toward the skies! ’Mid mirag’d towers, or meretricious joys Although we roam, one thought the mind employs: Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome, Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home. There, where affection warms the father’s breast. There is the spot of heav’n most surely blest: Howe’er we search, though wandering with the wind Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind, Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know, The light of heav’n upon our dark below. When from our dearest hope and haven reft, Delight nor dazzles nor is luxury left, We long, obedient to our nature’s law, To see again our hovel thatched with straw: See birds that know our avenaceous store Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar: But, of all hopes the wanderer’s soul that share, His pristine peace of mind’s his final prayer. From _Scribner’s Monthly_, May, 1881. ――――:o:―――― A BRAND-NEW SONG, (After Goldsmith.) (_On the Speaker of the House of Commons, Sir H. B. W. Brand, having his pocket picked of his watch at the Folly Theatre._) When a grave Speaker stoops to Folly, And finds with tickers roughs make way, What charm can soothe his melancholy―― Can _Laughing gas_ his loss repay? The only way to hide vexation, To shield himself from pungent chaff, Save dignity of House and nation, And keep his temper, is――to laugh. _Punch_, May 5, 1877. ―――― ON MR. WARTON, M.P. When they talked of their progress, improvement, and stuff, He blocked all their bills, snorted loud, and took snuff, ――――:o:―――― In that amusing book, “The Reminiscences of Henry Angelo” (published by Colburn and Bentley in 1830), some account is given of the satirical writer, Anthony Pasquin, whose real name, by the way, was Williams. This man who had been originally brought up to the profession of an Engraver, threw aside the graving tool, and adopted the less respectable calling of a satirical lampoonist. He was an unprincipled impudent sponge, who spoke ill of every one, and forced himself on the hospitality of all who knew him, so that it was said of him that “he never opened his mouth but at another man’s expence.” In 1786 he contributed to a weekly paper then appearing, entitled _The Devil_, from which Angelo quotes part of a long Parody upon the Deserted Village, written by Pasquin asserting the inferiority of the actors then upon the stage, to their predecessors, an assertion frequently made by elderly people even in these days. INNOVATION. Sweet Playhouse! best amusement of the town, Where often, at half-price, for half-a-crown, I’ve with such glee my opening visit paid, When oysters first are sold, and farces play’d: Dear boxes! where I scarce my nose could squeeze, Where play, and dance, and song were sure to please; How often happier than a king or queen, While loud applause has marked the well-play’d scene. How often have I paused on ev’ry charm, The speaking silence, the expression warm, The never-failing start, the gushing tear, The broken accents trembling on the ear; The moon that vainly tried to pierce the shade, Impervious scene for love or murder made; How often have I blessed the parting day, When, tea removed, I hurried to the play; And both the galleries, from labour free, Wept at the actor’s woe, or shar’d his glee; While many a first appearance has been made, The young contending as the old survey’d, And many a gentleman walk’d o’er the ground, While hisses, cat-calls, off! and groans, went round; And still as each repeated effort tir’d, The stage-struck wight became still more inspir’d. The rival Romeos that sought renown, By holding out, to tire each other down; The Scrub right conscious of his well-chalk’d face; While bursts of laughter echo’d round the place; The timid Juliet’s side-long looks of love, The critic’s glance, who would those looks reprove: These were thy charms, sweet playhouse, joys like these, With quick succession taught e’en Rich to please. These round the theatre alternate shed Laughter and tears――but all these charms are fled. Joy-giving Playhouse! best delight in town, Thy merit’s fled, and any stuff goes down. ’Midst thy bays the pruning knife is seen, And critic fury tears away the green; Monopoly now grasps the whole domain, And authors, actors, starve, nor dare complain. No wit or humour marks the lively play, But puns and quibbles make their saucy way; Along thy tragedies, a sleepy guest, Dull Declamation snores herself to rest. The place of elegance a stare supplies, And affectation that nor laughs nor cries. Ease, nature, grace, are now neglected all, For he acts best who can the loudest bawl; Or by a squint, or grin, or squeak engage, To fright astonish’d reason from the stage. Ill fares the town, to vicious tastes a prey, Where op’ras multiply, and plays decay; Pageants and shows may flourish or may fade, A puff can make them, as a puff has made, But well-writ plays, the stage’s noblest pride, When once destroy’d, can never be supplied. * * * * * Sweet was the sound when at the music’s close, Obedient to the bell, the curtain rose; There Garrick as he sadly stepp’d, and slow, In Hamlet――looked unutterable woe! Here, torn with jealous rage ’gainst her he loved, Barry grew agonised in――“not much mov’d.” There noisy bacchanals from Comus’ court, Milton and Arne taught how to laugh and sport. There Boyce and Dryden wak’d with hound the morn. Or vocal Johnny Beard, with early horn. There the apt tune in timely moment play’d, To fill each pause the _exeunt_ had made. But now simplicity’s soft accents fail, And Irish jigs th’insulted ear assail. No friends to Nature on the boards now tread, But all truth’s faithful portraiture is fled! * * * * * Beside Charles-street, where hackney coaches meet, Where two blue posts adorn fam’d Russell-street, There, in an ale-house, taught to play the fool, Good Master Shuter first was put to school. Nature’s adopted son, though mean and low, “Alas! I knew him well, Horatio.” Well did the tittering audience love to trace The miser’s thrift, depicted in his face; Well would the busy whisper circle round, When, in Corbaccio, at Volpone he frown’d; Yet he was kind――but if absurd in aught, The love he bore to blackguards was in fault. The chimney-sweeper swore how much he knew, ’Twas certain he could act, and mimic too. While Quaker’s sermons, given in drawling sound, Amazed the prigs, and kiddies rang’d around: And still they gap’d, and still the wonder grew, That one droll head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame――the Rose and Crown, Where he so oft got tipsy――is burnt down. Near to the wardrobe stairs, one story high, Where ermined robes and jewels caught the eye; Dull is that dressing-room――by Quin inspir’d, Where, once, choice wits after the play retir’d; When play-house statesmen talk’d, with looks profound, And apt quotations――meant for wit――went round; Imagination fondly stoops to trace, The tinsell’d splendours of the motley place; The warlike truncheon, prone upon the floor, The herald’s coat, that hung behind the door: The clothes――their different duties made to pay, To deck the stage by night, the street by day; The pictures slyly drawn on Hogarth’s plan, Garrick i’ the lanthorn――Quin in the sedan; The toilet stocked to decorate the play, Paint, Indian ink, burnt cork, and whiting gay; While on the clothes-pins rang’d in gaudy show, Robes deck’d with foil-stones, glittered in a row. Vain transitory splendours could not all Reprieve the mimic monarch from his fall. Obscure he sinks, forgot his worth and name, For Sheridan forbids the smallest fame; To paltry players, no more shall he impart An hour’s delight to the convivial heart: Thither no more shall witty lords repair, To sweet oblivion of the senate’s care! No more the anecdote, the luscious tale, The mirth-inspiring _good-thing_ shall prevail; No more the fop his cobweb’d sconce shall cheer, Padlock his flippant tongue, and learn to hear; Fat Quin himself no longer shall be found, Careful to see the chuckling fun go round; Nor the young actress, anxious to be tried, Shall blush to speak a _smutty speech aside_. ――――:o:―――― There was another Poem written in imitation of _The Deserted Village_ entitled “_The Frequented Village_, a Poem dedicated to Oliver Goldsmith,” by E. Young, L.L.D. (J. Godwin). Unfortunately there does not appear to be any copy of this Poem in the Library of the British Museum. Oliver Goldsmith, died on April 4th, 1774, and within a few days of his death a poem, written by Courtney Melmoth, was published by T. Beckett, in the Strand. “The Tears of Genius,” as the Poem was called, was dedicated to Sir Joshua Reynolds; part being written in imitation of the style of _The Deserted Village_, whilst another part, deploring the death of the poet Gray, was written in imitation of his Elegy in a Country Churchyard. There were also allusions to several other minor Poets but the whole effusion lacks interest. ――――:o:―――― THE DESERTED SCHOOL. Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, With hands in pockets, down Cheapside I go, And onward where one hears that dismal yell Of “Echo, Standard, Special, or Pall Mall,” Or where that dear old School forsaken lies A weary waste expanding to the skies. Where’er I roam whatever realms to see, My heart untravell’d fondly turns to thee; My thoughts to “Homer” turn, with ceaseless pain, “Physics” and “Newth” I ne’er shall do again. * * * * * And oft a sigh prevails and sorrows fall To see humanity of man so small; To turn us all away from that dear School, And sacrifice her to the workman’s tool. But my worn soul now deems it for the best At Kensington to see my fellows blest. JAMES E. THOMPSON. From _Pauline_, the Magazine of St. Paul’s School, in the City of London, October, 1885. ――――:o:―――― The Vicar of Wakefield is probably, of all English stories, the one which has been most widely read, (perhaps only excepting Robinson Crusoe), and has taken most thoroughly hold of the hearts of English speaking people. It was first printed at Salisbury, by Collins, and was issued by Francis Newberry, in 2 vols., in March 1766. A dainty facsimile of this original Edition has recently been published by Mr. Elliot Stock. A dramatic version of _The Vicar of Wakefield_, by W. G. Wills, entitled _Olivia_, has for some time past been attracting large audiences to the Lyceum Theatre, to see Henry Irving and Miss Ellen Terry in the parts of the Vicar and his daughter. The success of _Olivia_ tempted the inevitable travestie, and on Saturday, August 8, 1885, “The Vicar of Wide-a-Wakefield, or the Miss-Terry-ous Uncle.” a Respectful Burlesque Perversion by H. P. Stephens and W. Yardley, was produced at the Gaiety Theatre. The burlesque had but little humour, or literary merit, and although Mr. Arthur Roberts’s imitation of Henry Irving as Dr. Primrose was at times quaint and amusing, the entire success of the production was due to the extraordinary caricature of Miss Ellen Terry given by Miss Laura Linden, who has a perfect genius for such mimicry. Not only in voice, but in gestures, movements, and delivery, the resemblance was striking, and wonderfully sustained throughout the piece, with only just sufficient exaggeration to produce the intended effect of caricature. The plan of the authors of the burlesque consists in making the virtuous persons of the original appear to be more or less villainous and unprincipled, while the villain of the original is made out to be the only pure-minded and moral individual in the piece. For instance, the Vicar is a terrible old scoundrel, who only pretends to have lost all his money, who knows that Mr. Burchell is the baronet in disguise, and who schemes to get his daughters and son married, and performs the nuptials himself, under different disguises, so as to pocket the fees. Burchell is another villain, having unlawfully possessed himself of his nephew’s titles and estates. Olivia is a very forward minx, who tells the virtuous Squire Thornhill all about the pleasures of London, especially the gay and giddy Inventories, and who begs and induces him to run away with her. Even Sophia is cunning enough to discover Burchell’s identity, and to sum up all the worldly advantages of catching him matrimonially. The Cast when the Burlesque was first produced was as follows:―― THE VICAR OF WIDEAWAKEFIELD, OR THE MISS-TERRY-OUS UNCLE, Written by H. P. STEPHENS & W. YARDLEY, The Original Music by FLORIAN PASCAL. The Dances arranged by Madame KATTI LANNER. The New Scenery by Mr. E. G. BANKS. CHARACTERS. Dr. Primrose (Vicar of Wideawakefield) Mr. A. ROBERTS Squire Thornhill Miss VIOLET CAMERON Mr. Burchell Mr. T. SQUIRE Moses } { Mr. J. JARVIS Bill } The Vicar’s Sons { Miss M. PEARCE Dick } { Miss G. TYLER Leigh (a Vagabond) Miss LESLEY BELL Farmer Flamborough Mr. CORRY Mrs. Primrose Miss HARRIET COVENEY Olivia } { Miss LAURA LINDEN Sophia } her Daughters { Miss AGNES HEWITT Polly Flamborough Miss SYLVIA GREY Gipsy Woman Miss M. RAYSON In _The Retaliation_ Goldsmith treated David Garrick with some severity, and the cause may perhaps be found in some lines written by Garrick, descriptive of the curious character of Goldsmith, and therefore forming a fitting conclusion to this Collection of Parodies of his works:―― JUPITER AND MERCURY, A FABLE, Here, _Hermes_ says Jove, who with Nectar was mellow, Go, fetch me some clay――I will make an odd fellow: Right and wrong shall be jumbled,――much gold and some dross: Without cause be he pleas’d, without cause be he cross; Be sure, as I work to throw in contradictions, A great love of truth, yet, a mind turned to fictions; Now mix these ingredients, which warm’d in the baking, Turn’d to _learning_ and _gaminq_, _religion_ and _raking_. With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste; Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste; That the rake and the poet o’er all may prevail, Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail; For the joy of each sex, on the world I’ll bestow it, This _Scholar_, _Rake_, _Christian_, _Dupe_, _Gamester_, and _Poet_; Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, And among brother mortals――be GOLDSMITH his name; When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear, You――_Hermes_――shall fetch him――to make us sport here. [Illustration] Thomas Campbell, _Born July_ 27, 1777. _Died June_ 15, 1844. [Illustration: H]aving already given Parodies of several of the most celebrated English, Irish, and American Poets, it is advisable to turn now to Scotland for an Author, and although, perhaps, the genius and writings of Campbell were not very distinctly Scotch, most of his poems have achieved world-wide fame, and have consequently been very frequently parodied. Thomas Campbell was born and educated in Glasgow, where he achieved remarkable success in his studies; after travelling some time upon the Continent, he came to London, married, and went to reside at Sydenham. His writings soon attracted considerable attention, he was appointed Professor of Poetry to the Royal Institution, and became Editor of the New Monthly Magazine, to which he contributed many interesting articles. But an Act of Parliament should be passed to prohibit men of genius from acting as Editors, the work and worry kill them, and the duties leave no time for original compositions. It is, therefore, not surprising that Campbell was not a prolific poet, and Washington Irving relates that he once expressed his regret to Mrs. Campbell that her husband did not write more verse. “It is unfortunate,” she replied, “that he lives in the same age with Scott and Byron who write so much, and so rapidly. He is apt to undervalue his own works, and to consider his little light put out, whenever they come blazing out with their great torches.” Irving subsequently repeated this to the great Sir Walter, who, with his usual kindness, and good humour, replied, “How can Campbell mistake the matter so much? Poetry goes by quality, not by bulk. My poems are mere cairngorms, wrought up, perhaps, with a cunning hand, but they are mere Scotch pebbles, after all; now Tom Campbell’s are real diamonds, and diamonds of the first water.” Of the “diamonds” produced by Campbell, some of the most popular are Lochiel’s Warning, Hohenlinden, the Soldier’s Dream, Lord Ullin’s Daughter, and The Exile of Erin, but no one of his poems has been so often parodied as his famous naval ode “Ye Mariners of England.” ――――:o:―――― LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER. A Chieftain to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound, To row us o’er the ferry.” “Now who be ye, would cross Lockgyle, This dark and stormy water?” “Oh, I’m the Chief of Ulva’s Isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.” “And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the Glen, My blood would stain the heather. “His horsemen hard behind us ride! Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?” Outspoke the hardy Highland wight “I’ll go, my chief――I’m ready:―― It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady: And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heav’n each face Grew dark as they were speaking, But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer. “Oh haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, Though tempests round us gather; I’ll meet the raging of the skies: But not an angry father.” The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gather’d o’er her. And still they row’d amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was chang’d to wailing. For sore dismay’d, through storm and shade His child he did discover:―― One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid, And one was round her lover. “Come back, come back!” he cried in grief, Across this stormy water: And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!――Oh my daughter!” ’Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore, Return or aid preventing:―― The waters wild went o’er his child―― And he was left lamenting. THOMAS CAMPBELL. ――――:o:―――― SIR ROBERT’S BILL.[16] Sir Robert, to the Commons bound, Cries, “Cobden, do not tarry, And I’ll gie ye ‘Repeal’ all round, If now my bill you’ll carry!” “And who be you would pass ‘Repeal’ _My own peculiar treasure_?” “Oh! I’m the man, ye ken full weel, That does just what’s my pleasure. And fast before the _farmers’ friends_, I’ve fled in _your direction_―― And, should they gain their private ends, My bill would meet rejection!” “George Bentinck follows fast along, From him great harm I feel, Sir, And, should he prove so _very_ strong, Oh! who could rescue Peel, Sir?” Out spoke the hardy Leaguer, then―― “I’ll help ye, Peel, I’m ready―― It is not for _yourself_, ye ken, But for the League so seedy! “And, by my word, the Cotton Lords In danger shall not tarry―― And, tho’ the farmers whet their swords, Your measure I will carry!” “Then haste ye, haste, and no more words, Nor wait till it be calmer―― I’ll meet the raging of the Lords, But not an angry farmer!” The stormy Council Peel has left, A stormy House before him―― And see, the Tories, all a drift, Have soon begun to bore him. Yet still he waged the wordy war, With foemen justly railing―― Lord Stanley ventured to the “Bar,” From wrath he turned to wailing. For on that night in dismal plight, Sir Peel he saw to sob then―― One hand out-stretched for aid to Bright, And one was round his Cobden! “Go hence, go hence,” he cried in grief, Across the stormy lobby, “We’ll ne’er forgive our turn-coat chief, Sir Bobby, Oh! Sir Bobby!” ’Twas true――the turn-coats vainly rave, Protection’s friends preventing, The Tories brave kick’d out the knave, And he was left repenting. From _Protectionist Parodies_, by “A Tory.” Oxford, J. Vincent, 1850. ――――:o:―――― JOHN THOMPSON’S DAUGHTER. A Fellow near Kentucky’s clime, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry, And I’ll give thee a silver dime To row us o’er the ferry.” “Now, who would cross the Ohio, This dark and stormy water?” “O, I am this young lady’s beau, And she, John Thompson’s daughter. “We’ve fled before her fathers’ spite With great precipitation, And should he find us here to-night, I’d lose my reputation. “They’ve missed the girl and purse beside, His horsemen hard have pressed me, And who will cheer my bonny bride, If yet they shall arrest me?” Out spoke the boatman then in time, “You shall not fail, don’t fear it; I’ll go, not for your silver dime, But for your manly spirit. “And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; For though a storm is coming on, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” By this the wind more fiercely rose, The boat was at the landing, And with the drenching rain their clothes Grew wet where they were standing, But still, as wilder rose the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Just back a piece came the police, Their tramping sounded nearer. “O, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, “It’s anything but funny; I’ll leave the light of loving eyes, But not my Father’s money!” And still they hurried in the face Of wind and rain unsparing; John Thompson reached the landing place, His wrath was turned to swearing. For by the lightning’s angry flash, His child he did discover; One lovely hand held all the cash, And one was round her lover! “Come back, come back,” he cried in woe. Across the stormy water, “But leave the purse, and you may go, My daughter, Oh! my daughter!” Twas vain, they reached the other shore, (Such dooms the Fates assign us), The gold he piled went with his child, And he was left there, _minus_. From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey. Boston, United States, 1854. ―――― LAMBETH FERRY. A cove vot had come from Lambeth Town Cried “Boatman do not tarry: I don’t mind giving you ’arf-a-crown To row me over with Mary.” “Now who be he vould cross the Thames Ven it’s dark and ’tis high vater?” “Vy Billy Downey is my name, And this is Black Joe’s Daughter. “Afore her daddy’s ’prentice boys! An hour we’ve run away, man! Should they catch us they’d make a noise, And my poor back vould pay, man.” Up jumps the vaterman, “I’ll pull; Jump in my boat, be jolly; It’s not for the sake of half-a-bull, But for your charming Polly. “And so help me tater, the darlen creetur, Though in danger you have brought her, But if it should rain both cats and dogs, I’ll row you o’er the vater.” And then the vind it howled apace, The rain vas fast a pattering. They stared in each other’s face As they stood there a chattering. And still as the rain made more noise, And as the vind blow’d hoarser, They heard the sound of the ’prentice boys As if they vos coming closer. “Oh! sparkle up,” poor Polly said, “Though the veather be ever so cold, man, I’d rather meet a vatery bed Than meet my angry old man.” The boat has left the Thames’ famed shore, They pulled away, ahoy! sir, Ven oh! too strong for his weak hand, They run against a buoy, sir. My eyes! how the wild waves did roar, Poor Bill thought Poll vos dying, Black Joe, he reached the fatal shore, Ven he begun a-crying. For ven towards the wreck he look’d His child he did discover. Von mutton fist in her hair was hook’d Tother vos round her lover. “Come back, come back!” he cried, “to me,” “Come back, vot are you arter, And I’ll forgive you, Billy Downey, My daughter! oh, my daughter.” But a wave came vot upset the boat In the vater they vos drivelling. Joe viped his eye vith the tail of his coat, And he began a snivelling! ANONYMOUS. ―――― THE NEW LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER. A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry; And I’ll give thee a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry.” The boatman did not even smile, But looked across the water; He kenned the Chief of Ulva’s Isle, And eke Lord Ullin’s daughter. “Oh, haste thee!――haste!” the lady cried, “This youth and I, eloping, Would cross at once to t’other side, So aid us in our sloping!” The boatman budged no inch, and then The clue Lord U. discovers; And down the glen ride armed men, And catch the brace of lovers. “Curst boatman;” shouted Ulva’s chief, “If I were free I’d show ye”―― “_We’d rather dee on Loch Maree Than on the Sawbath row ye!_” _Funny Folks_, July 13, 1878. ――――:o:―――― HOHENLINDEN. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array’d, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh’d, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shock the hills with thunder riv’n Then rush’d the steeds to battle driv’n, And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flash’d the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden’s hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. ’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph’rous canopy. The combat deepens, on ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet, Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre! THOMAS CAMPBELL. The Battle of Hohenlinden was fought on December 3, 1800, when the French, under General Moreau gained a victory over the Austrians. Campbell witnessed the battle from the monastery of St. Jacob, it is therefore somewhat surprising that his poem should, in its details, be so completely at variance with the reality of history. The Colonel of the Sixteenth Lancers, in describing the battle said that the “victory was obtained almost without an effort of the General, or any very great bravery on the part of his troops.” Some of the poetical allusions, as for instance “the black Iser,” “bannered Munich,” and the “night scene” were altogether imaginary, and nothing can be called true but the beautiful stanza that concludes the Ode. Whilst a writer in “Notes and Queries” suggested that even this stanza was poetically faulty, and proposed it should be altered to: “And every sod beneath their feet Shall bear a soldier’s Elegy.” ―――― BANNOCKBURN. (_An imitation of Hohenlinden._) Near Stirling’s tower, by Fortha’s wave The rising sun its radiance gave, Upon the armour of the brave That burned for battle brilliantly. And Scotland by that soaring sun Beheld her brightest day begun―― Her greenest wreath of glory won By deeds of dauntless bravery. On Bannockburn’s camp covered field The men of war were met to wield, With hostile hand, the sword and shield, For conquest or for liberty! How gaily glanced that field before Began the battle’s rage and roar! That reddened with the reeking gore As raved the dreadful revelry. The wild war-yell rose hoarse and high, St. George! for Edward was the cry, And Scotland’s shout shook earth and sky, St. Andrew! Bruce! and liberty! Then closed the conflict deep and dread! Then strained the bow and struck the blade, Its dirge of death the trumpet brayed, As thinn’d the ranks of rivalry! What feelings fired each hero’s heart, For conquest or a country’s part, As from each eye the flash did dart, That spoke the spirits enmity: But fast the Southrons fell and fled Where Bruce――brave Bruce! his patriots led, And Scotland’s lion rampant――red Pranced proudly on to victory! And may each land, as Scotland, scorn The tyrant’s threat――his thraldom spurn With such success as Bannockburn Of dear and deathless memory! ARCHIE ALIQUIS. From _The Scrap-book of Literary Varieties_. Printed by Edward Lacey, 1825. ―――― THE BATTLE OF PEAS HILL. “The following effusion was penned the day after the memorable 13th of November, 1820, which must be a day of pleasant recollection to all CANTABS, as long as there shall be a SNOB or _Radical_ amongst them, or a fist to bate them with. This is the only _Matriculation Day_ which is registered in _letters_ of blood in the archives of the Vice-Chancellor; and we are sure there never was, nor ever will be, such an occasion for calling FRESHMEN from the science of _mechanics_ to the application of its _theory_ in the _science of war_.” On Granta, when the sun was low, No symptoms lower’d of fearless row, But all was silent as the flow Of CAMUS rolling _tardily_. But Granta saw another sight, When Radicals presumed at night, With _Carter’s_[17] mutton-wicks to light Their Caroline’s base treachery. Round Hobson’s conduit quick array’d, Each GOWNSMAN rush’d the cause to aid, And fast about him each one laid, With blows that told most terribly. Then rushing forth the SNOBS among, Fierce from the ranks the Johnian sprung, And loud and clear the market rung, With shouts of dreadless liberty. But redder yet shall be each cheek, And louder yet each tongue shall speak, And fiercer yet each soon shall wreak His vengeance most undauntedly. ’Tis rushlight all――but what can shew The GOWNSMAN from the GOWNSMAN’S foe, As shouting in thick files they go To battle all so merrily? No banners there were waving high, To cheer the brave to victory, No pennon floating to the sky, With rare device wrought curiously. No plumes of crested pride were seen, But tassels black of silken sheen, With gold and silver mix’d between, Emblems of unanimity! No sound was heard of martial drum, No bugle blast, but one wild hum Floated o’er all: “The SNOBS! they come, On! on! and meet them cheerily.” And then was shout, and noise, and din, As rallying forwards poured in, Hundreds and hundreds to begin The work of fame so gloriously. Then rush’d undaunted, to the fight, The tall――the low――the strong――the light; And, oh! it was a glorious sight, That strife of TOWN and GOWN to see. As fist to fist, rais’d high in air, And face to face opposed were, As shone the conflict in the glare Of lights that told of Bergami. Then rushed to fight the hardy SOPH, Regardless of the townsmen’s scoff, As one by one they sallied forth To war in ambush warily. Then rush’d the FRESHMAN to essay His maiden valour in the fray, And who that valour shall gainsay, And wrong not such effrontery? Then with one cry so loud and shrill, It echoed to the CASTLE HILL, They charged the SNOBS against their will, And shouted clear and lustily. Then all distinctions were forgot―― Then, silk and velvet had one lot With _tatter’d stuffs_, upon that spot Which sacred was to bravery. No signs of fear, no signs of dread, Of bloody nose or broken head, Of wretch by Proctors homeward led For “acting contumaciously.” No thoughts were there, but such as grace The memory of that crowded place, The memory of that gallant race Who _took_ and _gave_ so heartily. The combat deepens; on, ye brave, Who rush to conquest, or to save; Wave all your _stuffs_ and _poplins_ wave! And charge with all your chivalry! Few, few, shall part where many meet, Dull soon shall be each crowded street, Responsive, now, to thousand feet Pursuing on to Victory. From _The Gradus ad Cantabrigiam_, by a Brace of Cantabs, John Hearne, London, 1824. ―――― JENNY-LINDEN. A Dreadful Engagement between the Swedish Nightingale, and the Poet Bunn. On Lind, when Drury’s sun was low, And bootless was the wild-beast show, The lessee counted for a flow Of rhino to the treasury. But Jenny Lind, whose waken’d sight Saw Drury in a proper light, Refused, for any sum per night, To sing at the Menagerie. With rage and ire in vain displayed Each super drew his wooden blade, In fury half and half afraid, For his prospective salary. Bunn in a flaming frenzy flew, And speedily the goosequill drew With which he is accustomed to Pen such a deal of poetry. He wrote the maiden, to remind Her of a compact she had signed, To Drury Lane’s condition blind, And threaten’d law accordingly. Fair as in face in nature, she Implored the man to set her free, Assuring him that he should be Remunerated handsomely. Two thousand pounds she offered, so That he would only let her go: Bunn, who would have his bond, said, No! With dogged pertinacity. And now his action let him bring, And try how much the law will wring From her to do the handsome thing, Who had proposed so readily! The Swedish Nightingale to cage He fail’d; she sought a fitting stage, And left him to digest his rage, And seek his legal remedy. Then shook the House with plaudits riven, When Jenny’s opening note was given, The sweetest songstress under heaven Forth bursting into melody, But fainter the applause shall grow, At waning Drury’s wild-beast show, And feebler still shall be the flow Of rhino to the treasury. The Opera triumphs! Lumley brave, Thy bacon thou shalt more than save; Wave, London, all thy ’kerchiefs wave, And cheer with all thy chivalry. ’Tis night, and still yon star doth run; But all in vain for treasurer Dunn, And Mr. Hughes, and Poet Bunn, And quadrupeds, and company. For Sweden’s Nightingale, so sweet, Their fellowship had been unmeet, The sawdust underneath whose feet Hath been the Drama’s sepulchre. _Punch_, May 15, 1847. Mr. Alfred Bunn, then lessee and manager of Drury Lane Theatre, had endeavoured to secure the services of Miss Jenny Lind, but she accepted an engagement under Mr. Lumley, and made her first appearance at Her Majesty’s Theatre, Haymarket, on May 4, 1847. Her _début_ was a brilliant triumph, and for the short time she remained on the lyric stage she was extremely popular. But in 1851 she married M. Otto Goldschmidt, and retired from the stage, although she has occasionally performed since, principally for the benefit of public charities, or other philanthropic objects. ―――― THE BAL MASQUÉ AT CROCKFORD’S. On Thursday, ere the time was come For supper’s joys――the guests were glum, And deep as thunder was the hum Of thousands polking sullenly. But Crockford’s saw another sight, When rang the bell at dead of night, Commanding streams of gas to light Her supper-room’s gay scenery. In Hart’s and Nathan’s costumes lent, Each polkeuse chose some visor’d Gent, And eagerly the cash was spent, To join the coming revelry. Then rushed the crowds, by hunger driven, Then rang the room, with laughter riven, And loudly were the orders given For Champagne popping merrily. But louder yet the noise shall grow, Ere Crockford’s masquers thence shall go, And faster yet the wine shall flow, From bottles emptied rapidly. ’Tis day, and scarce the exhausted band Can sleep’s o’er-powering charms withstand, While Jullien waves his wearied hand, And leads the final galopade. The pace now quickens. On, ye slow! Or crushed by numbers, down you’ll go. Blow, Kœnig! loud thy posthorn, blow, And make the walls re-echo thee! Few, few, remain that sound to greet, The dancers rest their burning feet; And each cab in St. James’s-street Bears home some worn-out reveller. _The Man in the Moon_, Vol. 1. ―――― ROW-IN-LONDON. _Caused by the Invasion of the French National Guards, in_ 1848. In London, when the funds were low, And business was uncommon slow, The Quadrant only on the go, And that kept moving sluggishly. But London saw another sight When National Guards arrived at night, And Lumber troopers took to flight, Across the pavement slippery. In shirt and stockings fast arrayed, The Lord Mayor gasped out, sore afraid, And with the Aldermen essayed To join the flying Cavalry. To cut and run they’d stoutly striven, But back to battle they were driven, And then the foremost rank was given The Bunhill Row Artillery. But bolder yet that troop must grow, Or, London conquered by the foe, The Gallic cock will proudly crow On Temple Bar right merrily. ’Tis morn――but Specials in a swoon, Won’t reach the Mansion House by noon, Where frantic Gibbs and “pale-faced Moon”[18] Groan in the butler’s pan-t-ry. The combat deepens――on ye brave, Who rush to Guildhall, or the grave; Save, Magog! oh, the city save, And charge with all the Livery. Few French shall tread where freemen meet Turtle on Lord Mayor’s Day to eat; But hung on high, with dangling feet, Swing opposite St. Sepulchre’s! _The Puppet Show_, September 30, 1848. ―――― THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD. On Paris, when the sun was low, The gay “Comique” made goodly show, _Habitués_ crowding every row To hear Limnandier’s opera. But Paris showed another sight, When, mustering in the dead of night, Her masters stood, at morning light, The crack _chasseurs_ of Africa. By servants in my pay betrayed, Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made, Wrote that a circumstance delayed His marriage rite and revelry. Then shook small Thiers with terror riven; Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven; And, swearing (not alone by Heaven), Was seized, bold Lamoricière. But louder rose the voice of woe, When soldiers sacked each cit’s depôt, And tearing down a helpless foe, Flashed Magnan’s red artillery. More, more arrests! Changarnier brave Is dragged to prison like a knave, No time allowed the swell to shave, Or use the least perfumery. ’Tis morn, and now Hortense’s son, (Perchance her spouse’s too) has won The imperial crown. The French are done, Chawed up most incontestably. Few, few shall write, and none shall meet; Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet! And every serf beneath my feet Shall hail the soldier’s Emperor. These lines on the Coup d’Etat of Napoleon III. were written by the late Professor W. E. Aytoun, a most determined and persistent opponent of the Napoleon régime. The doubt as to the Emperor Napoleon’s paternity has been frequently expressed, it did not originate with Aytoun. ―――― HOHEN-LONDON. _The result of an awful Engagement on the part of her Majesty to honour the City Ball with her presence._ In London, when folks’ taste was low, They used to like the Lord Mayor’s show; But now ’tis voted very slow―― A dull affair, decidedly. But London showed another sight, When the Queen came on Wednesday night, Escorted, through a blaze of light To join the City revelry. At every window smart array’d, Sat civic lass, and Cockney blade; And all the populace hoorayed To see the Royal pageantry. Then shook St. Paul’s, with shouting riven; Then rushed the steeds, up Cheapside driven; And still more stunning cheers were given By noisy British loyalty. But noisier yet the crowd will grow, Through King Street, as the Queen shall go To Guildhall, there――on gouty toe―― To see her hosts dance heavily. The concourse thickens! Heroes brave, Who flash the bull’s eye on the knave, Wave, Crushers, all your truncheons wave, And charge them with the cavalry. The Hall is gained; but lo! what fun! As to a ball, the Sovereign’s done! Except her suite, there’s room for none To dance before her Majesty. Few, few can polk where many meet, And have no space to kick their feet; The Hop a failure was complete; The Supper went off decently. _Punch_, July 19, 1851. ―――― SWINDON. At Swindon when the night drew nigh, Few were the trains that went thereby, And very dreary was the sigh, Of damsels waiting dolefully. But Swindon saw another sight, When the train came at dead of night, Commanding oil and gas to light Much stale confectionery. By soups and coffee fast allured, Each passenger his choice secured, Excepting those lock’d in, immured By sly policeman’s treachery. Then rushed the mob, by hunger driven; Then vanished buns, in pieces riven; And louder than the orders given, Fast popped the beer artillery. But farther yet the train shall go, And deeper yet shall be their woe, And greater horrors shall they know, Who bolt their food so speedily. Time’s up; but scarce each sated one Can pierce the steam cloud, rolling dun, Where curious tart and heavy bun Lie in dyspeptic sympathy. The combat thickens. On, ye brave! Who scald your throats, in hope to save Some spoonsful of your soup, the knave Will charge for all he ladles ye! Few, few, digest where many eat, The nightmare shall wind up their feat, Each carpet bag beneath their seat Shall seem a yawning sepulchre. ANONYMOUS. ―――― HOTEL SWINDLING. In Dover, when my purse was low, One luckless night, ’twixt sheets of snow, At an hotel most travellers know, Did I, Sir, slumber cosily. But Dover shock’d at morn my sight With _such_ a bill for that brief night, Such whacking sums for wax to light The darkness of its hostelry! My tea and crumpets’ cost array’d, That a rogue drew the bill betray’d, And furious overcharges made, The whole a dreadful robbery. Then shrank my purse, to plunder given: Then wagg’d my tongue, to scolding driven; And at these scamps, on cheating thriven, Fierce flash’d my eyes’ artillery. But fiercer yet did those eyes glow, When reft of means “express” to go, From Dover, in the third-class low, Was I, Sir, rolling crawlingly. ’Twas morn, but deuce a bit of sun Pierced through the clouds; they were as “dun” As I,――excuse the horrid pun―― In that infernal hostelry. The subject sickens. On, thou knave! And dig base Imposition’s grave; Shave, landlords! all your guests close shave, And overcharge in rivalry! Few, few return, where many meet, Or press again the snow-white sheet; The _Times_, ye hosts, who foully cheat, Will be your swindling’s sepulcre. _Diogenes_, November, 1853. ―――― THE BATTLE OF BULL-RUN. At Bull-run, when the sun was low, Each Southern face was pale as snow; And shrill as jackdaws, rose the crow Of Yankees boasting _rabidly_! But Bull-Run saw another sight, When in the deepening shades of night Towards Fairfax Court-house, streamed the flight Of Yankees running _rapidly_! Then shook the corps, with terror riven Then rushed the steeds, _from_ battle driven; The men of “Battery number seven” Forsook their red artillery. Now from McDonald’s furthest left, The roar of cannon strikes one deaf; Where furious “Abe” and fiery “Jeff” Contend for death or victory. The _panic_ thickens; Off ye Brave! Throw down your arms; _your bacon save_! Waive Washington, each scruple waive, And fly with all your chivalry. ―――― SIC VOS, NON VOBIS, VERSIFICATIS AVE. At Seacliff, when the time passed slow, And summer’s sun refused to show, Relentless was the steady flow Of raindrops pattering drearily. But Seacliff saw another sight, The band struck up at ten at night, And Volunteers in leggings tight, Awoke the dance right cheerily. By willing steward’s friendly aid The warrior sought the smiling maid, And charged, as each musician played, Adown the hall, hung tastily. Then shook the floor to twinkling feet, While some did dance and some did eat, Or strove to stay the increasing heat By swallowing ices hastily. But shorter yet these lights shall burn, And faster yet the waltzers turn, Before the chaperones discern That day is surely slipping in. ’Tis morn; but all that’s young and fair Of Seacliff beauties linger there, Full loath to seek the outer air And leave the hall they’re tripping in. The ball is over. Read ye now Who read for honours,――or a plough, May Oxford’s laurels grace the brow Of him who works most steadily. Too soon we part; but when we meet In bonds of recollections sweet, We’ll chat of Seacliff’s snug retreat That welcomed us so readily. L. E. S. From _College Rhymes_. W. Mansell, Oxford, 1861. ―――― BELTON.[19] (August 12, 1863.) At Belton, ere the twilight grew, Untrodden was the avenue, Save by Papas and Mas a few With their sight-seeing progeny. But Belton saw another sight, When the mob came at nine at night, And with a thousand flambeaux light Illumined all her scenery. With od’rous torch and British cheer, To Brownlow’s home they drew them near, His Lordship’s honour――not his beer―― The motive of their revelry. Forth flowed the ale. Ye know not its Peculiar virtues, O ye cits, ’Twould beat e’en Burton tap to fits, Though Bass be its auxiliary. And hours that amber stream shall flow, And men shall come and scorn to go, The thirsty souls shall thirstier grow, Though quarts it empties rapidly. ’Tis midnight. For one “level son,” A hundred bawl they “havn’t done,” And as the barrels run and run, Shout in their beery jollity. The beer grows thicker: now they go―― They could not drink for aye, you know―― Grantham thy banners (calico) Should wave o’er these (thy chivalry?). Few, few can stand, though all have feet, They need no counterpane or sheet, When ev’ry turf that e’er they meet Destroys a perpendicular. ―――― BILLS. AT Oxford when my funds were low, And I was ploughed for “Little-go,” How fast and furious was the flow Of Bills that came in rapidly! But Oxford saw another sight, When my rich aunt went off one night, For then I’d gold, and cheques could write, And shopkeepers came fawningly: “Our stupid clerks the error made, _We_ never were the least afraid About our small bills being paid;” And so they went on lyingly. “We hope,” they said with glistening eye, “You’ll still allow us to supply All articles you want; we’ll try To please you, sir, in every way.” Oh! rare and comic was the fun To see each humbly cringing dun, The oily and the sugary one, All full of meek apology. I paid their bills upon the spot, And the receipts from each I got, And then I looked at all the lot, As they stood bowing smilingly. “Get out each fawning drivelling knave,” I shouted out with features grave; My hand towards the door I wave, And clench it simultaneously. I heard the sound of hurrying feet Haste down the stairs and up the street, And then in fits of laughter sweet, I went off unrestrainedly. From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon. Chapman and Hall, London, 1874. ―――― HO! IN PRINCE’S. At Prince’s when the sun is low, See all the fashion skating go, And bright and brilliant is the flow, Of ladies rinking rapidly. Ah! Prince’s is a splendid sight, From break of day till fall of night, For all combine to render bright, The dull surrounding scenery. In gorgeous dresses see arrayed, The haughty dame, the tender maid, Who join, with not a thought dismayed, The fascinating revelry. From morn till eve a throng is found, Of rapid rinkers rolling round, Amid the light and joyous sound Of music’s varied melody. Then on, ye fair ones, one by one, Who rink for fashion, or for fun, From early morn till setting sun You’ll always meet with chivalry. And if, perchance at fearful pace, You charge another face to face, Then cry, when in that close embrace, “’Tis I, Sir, rinking rapidly,” Few will forget the hours sweet, They spent with skates upon their feet, Nor friends that they were wont to meet At Prince’s, rinking rapidly. From _Idyls of the Rink_. London: Judd & Co., 1876. ―――― THE TAY BRIDGE DISASTER. That fatal eve, as darkness died, It spann’d the Firth in conscious pride, And far beneath it rolled the tide Of Tay, lamenting sullenly. But later met that bridge its doom, When fiery showers pierced the gloom, To light to their tempestuous tomb, A wild despairing company. Struck midway by the raging blast, The girders crash’d and crumbled fast, And down that living freight was cast Into a sea of agony. Lost was the falling metals roar Amid the elemental war, And fast the flaming sparks flew o’er The chasm’s dense obscurity. But soon those sparks are lost to sight, Quenched in the river’s rayless night, And still rejoicing in his might, Tay sweepeth seawards sullenly. ’Tis midnight! scarce yon barque can make Her way where seething billows break, And still the winds and waters shake The heavens in their rivalry. Though darker yet the airy dome, Speed, gallant ship, across the foam! On! on! _Dundee_! and gather home Those wrecks of frail humanity! But none shall wake where many sleep, Their bier shall be the trackless deep; And ever shall the surges sweep Above their lonely sepulchre. From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton. Wyman and Sons, London, 1880. The Tay Bridge broke down on December 28, 1879, carrying with it a train which was passing over at the time, and many lives were lost. ―――― ERIN-LIEDER. In Erin where the Praties grow When rents were high and prices low Ejected Paddies had to go, Across the ocean rapidly. But Erin saw another sight, When tenants struck for tenant right, And gallant Parnell led the fight, Against a Landlord tyranny. By torch-light leaders were conveyed To platforms, furious speeches made, And every tenant farmer bade, To “hold the harvest” steadily, Few, few the rents that any got, And if an Agent was not shot, He had to undergo Boycott- Ing, by a _furious_ peasantry. J. M. LOWRY, 1884. ―――― It is said that Campbell sent the MS. of Hohenlinden to the _Greenock Advertiser_, but that it was rejected, with a polite intimation “that it did not come up to the Editor’s standard, and that poetry was evidently not the _forte_ of the contributor.” A version of Hohenlinden in Latin sapphics, probably written by Father Prout (the Rev. Francis Mahony) appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, in 1834; and another version, in Latin Alcaics, “Prælium Lindenium” by the Rev. William Fellowes A.M., appeared in the _Sabrinæ Corolla_, 1850. THE SOLDIER’S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track, ’Twas autumn――and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft, In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young, I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. “Stay――stay with us!――rest, thou art weary and worn!” (And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay,) But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away! THOMAS CAMPBELL. ―――― THE SOLDIER’S DREAM. (_After_ T. CAMP-BELL, _by_ A. CAMP-BEAU.) We were wet as the deuce; for like blazes it poured, And the sentinels’ throats were the only things dry; And under their tents Chobham’s heroes had cowered, The weary to snore, and the wakeful to sigh. While dozing that night in my camp bed so small, With a mackintosh over to keep out the rain―― After one glass of grog, cold without――that was all―― I’d a dream, which I hope I shall ne’er have again. Methought from damp Chobham’s mock-battle array, I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack; ’Twas the season, and wax lights illumined the way To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back. I flew to the dancing rooms, whirled through so oft With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung, I saw the grim chaperons, perched up aloft, And heard the shrill notes WEIPPERT’S orchestra flung. _She_ was there――I would “pop”――and a guardsman no more, From my sweet little partner for life ne’er would part, When sudden I saw――just conceive what a bore―― A civilian, by Jove! laying siege to her heart! “Out of sight, out of mind!” It was not to be borne―― To cut her, challenge him I was rushing away―― When sudden the twang of that vile bugle horn Scared my visions, arousing the camp for the day. _Punch_, July 9, 1853. ―――― THE BOAT RACE, “_Verrimus et proni certantibus æquora remis._” We had stripped off our coats, for the first gun had fired; Our starter intent on his watch set his eye; On the bank there were hundreds in flannels attired, The lean ones to run, and the fat ones to try. The last gun was fired, we are off and away, With fast flashing oars, on the foremost boat’s track; ’Twas pumping――my knees, too, got in my way, And a troublesome horse-fly was biting my back. The flush of exertion broke out on my face, And the skin-wearing car handle gave me great pain, And I vowed in my heart this should be my last race, And thrice ere the finish I vowed it again. Put it on――well-rowed all――now you’re gaining――full oft I heard on the bank from many a tongue, And the cheers of our comrades that went up aloft From many a loud-shouting ear-splitting lung. Then we spurted like mad, and gained more and more, Till the two boats were scarcely six inches apart, Our coxswain alternately cheered us and swore, To let off the steam from his fast-beating heart. Easy all! ’Tis a bump! ’Tis a bump, I’ll be sworn! I was glad, for my back had begun to give way. Our cheers on the wings of the evening were borne, And our boat became head of the river that day. From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon. Chapman and Hall, London, 1874. ―――― THE TORY PREMIER’S DREAM. Our leaders sang truce――for the session had lowered, And a cloud had come o’er the political sky; And the Parliament sank on the ground over-powered, The Liberals to shout, and the Tories to cry. After feeding that night on my pork chop so raw With the vote-guarding “faggot” still haunting my brain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice e’er the cock crew I dreamed it again. Methought from the Polling-booth’s dreadful array Triumphant I rose, for of votes I’d no lack. ’Twas delightful to hear all constituents say. “We idolize Jingo, and welcome you back!” I flew to the policy traversed so oft, The secrecy whence my “surprises” have sprung; My motto, “Imperium,” floated aloft, And I laughed in my sleeve at the softness of Bung. Then pledged we the Water Bill; fondly we swore From our spirited policy never to part; The stockjobbers blessed me a thousand times o’er, And the public it cursed in its hardness of heart. Stay, stay with us――rest till an Empire is born; And fain was the Novelist-Statesman to stay; But Gladstone returned with the dawning of morn, And all my majority melted away. _Funny Folks_, April 17, 1880. ―――― THE FATAL GALLOPADE. A Parody upon the style of Thomas Campbell, Author of “Theodric,” etc. ’Twas night――a damp――dark――misty――murky night, Scarce thro’ the gloom could pierce the gas-lamp’s light, When to the square, which bears proud Grosvenor’s name, A crowd of carriages and chariots came, Stopping in turns, successively before A mansion’s wide and double-knockered door; And there was heard the carriage door’s quick slam,―― Anon a halt――and then a sudden jam Of poles retrorsally thro’ chariots driven, And shrieks of “Coachman!――Thomas! John!――oh Heaven!” At length, in safety’s reached the drawing room, Where gold, and platina, and pearl, and plume, Floating and shining o’er neck, head, and ears,[20] Like stars and white clouds seemed in heav’nly spheres From the high roof where gold and azure blended, In hues designed to typify the sky, Bright chandeliers of crystallised glass depended In colours each of too resplendent dye For human art with one of them to vie. Oh! ’twas a scene too dazzling to the sight―― Too grandly gay――too beautifully bright! And now the music and the dance began,―― The beaux to ogle, and the belles to fan; And oft between the pauses of each dance, To lull the listener to a dreamy trance, Soft melting sounds around his heart-strings wreathed, To which a voice responsive accents breathed, Filling with such sweet harmony the air, It seemed an angel had been wafted there! But who is he of foreign garb and air, That roams about with sentimental stare? No common personage; his star-lit breast Bespeaks him noble――little boots the rest; Russian he is, a rich ambassador. And oh!――propitious fact! a batchelor! A faded heiress looks on him intent; But, ah! his eyes are on another bent,―― And such another! who her charms can paint? Description waxes in the effort faint; Pure as an infant in its first repose―― Mild as a summer evening at its close―― Pensive and pale as Dian in decline,―― Meek as the lily――tender as the vine―― Chaste as the Vestal,――modest as the ray, Which the sun leaves for night to scare away! These, and a thousand other charms, to boot Struck folly dumb, and admiration mute! Ceased the quadrille, the gallopade began, And partners briskly to their stations ran; Now thought the amorous Ambassador, Now let me dance――yes, now, or never more! With this he rushed to where his loved one stood, Asked her to dance――sweet girl!――she said she would; Joy to the Russian! he is blest indeed, And soon outstrips the fashionable speed;―― Too fatal speed! the floor’s vanished chalk Which pairs, more careful, step o’er in a walk, Arrests not them too fond to look below, Till down they suddenly together go! Smile not, ye fools!――the fair one’s head is broke! They raised her up, but never more she spoke! Ah! well with anguish may her partner start, For what hath broke her head, hath also broke his heart! _The Comic Magazine_, 1834. ―――― LOCHIEL’S WARNING _The Wizard_―― Lochiel! Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight: They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? ’Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate, A steed comes at morning; no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave! _Lochiel_―― Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. _The Wizard_―― Ah! laughs’t thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed――for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast, Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? ’Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements height, Heaven’s fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o’er her famishing brood. ―――― These lines are from Campbell’s “Lochiel’s Warning,” which poem is said to have been formed upon the skeleton of _bouts-rimés_, it certainly displays little trace of such a mode of construction. ―――― On January 14, 1880, _The World_ published two competition poems on the model of “Lochiel’s Warning”; the topic selected being: “1879, its Glory and its Shame.” FIRST PRIZE. _John Bull――――Old Year._ _John Bull_―― Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day That beholds thee, like evil dream, vanish away! For dejection and shame have companioned thy flight, From the morn of thy birth to thy final midnight. Look, look, where on reeking Isandula’s plain, Outflanked and outnumbered, our bravest are slain! Ah, see how cruel assegais enter the breast, Undismayed to the last, of our comrade and guest! Hark, hark, where the waters of Afghan’s dark river Fling back a sad cry, and then still it for ever, And where blood-stained Cabul with fanatical yells Of an envoy’s foul slaughter exultingly tells. _Old Year_―― Peace, pessimist, peace! I have shattered the power Of the Zulu man-slayer, have curbed the rude Boer; Secocoeni is captive. Shere Ali is dead, And back from your borders the Russian I’ve sped; And no brighter pages can valour display. _John Bull_―― Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day―― From thy frost-bitten spring to thine autumn of blight Rain, rain hath oppressed us noon, morning, and night; Scant produce, unripened, mocks garden and farm; Flood and Tempest have waited on Famine’s alarm; While Leisure and Labour and Pleasure and Pain Have pined for the breath of thy summer in vain. With Sedition’s loud cry, have our annals been shamed, With a Senate obstructed, a credit defamed, With the cheers of a mob and the sneers of a press To rash to condemn and too prompt to caress, While the pulse of our commerce beats fitful and low―― _Old Year_―― False libeller, silence! and hark, ere I go: All my life throughout Europe the sword hath been sheathed; I have soothed the war-passions my brothers bequeathed; If want and Disaster _have_ marched by my hand, They have knit class to class, and endeared land to land; And hardier and wiser, you shall not repine At the trials you have passed through in ’Seventy-nine. ZIEGELSTEIN. (_Goymour Cuthbert_). ―――― SECOND PRIZE. _Wizard (of the North)――――Chieftain B._ _Wizard_―― Chieftain, O Chieftain, lament for the year! Of distress and disaster a history drear: For Cabul with its slain rises red on my sight; And grim Isandula, that massacre fight. They fought and they perished by field and by flood; But their victories rest bootless, and blood calls for blood. Weep, Albion, thy losses, thy glory grown pale! Weep, though gagged correspondents can’t tell the whole tale! _Chief_―― Go, prate to Midlothian, thou peace-preaching seer! If the wars of thy country so dreadful appear, Let the fields of Ulundi, Rorke’s Drift, and Ekowe Dispel with their glory such phantoms of woe. _Wizard_―― Ha! then turn to the East, who will there take thy side? Proud Chief, thou must break with the land of thy pride. Say, how strutted proud Turkey! how low now he lies! And new nations spring round while the old tyrant dies. Flourish freedom and peace where oppression once stood, And poor Turkey may scream for the loss of that brood. _Chief_―― Verbose rhetor, avaunt! I’ve well managed my clan; Right or wrong, I rely on their votes to a man, With our endless resources, no foeman we fear, So woe to king Theebaw―― _Wizard_―― Yet weep for the year. Trade’s bad, sir, whatever your chemicals meant; And outside of Ireland, folks will not pay rent. Home interests were shelved, though oft Ministers met―― And look how the country has got into debt! They’ve finished, their blunders are done in the House; The Session was lost, just because they’d no _nous_, And where are those bothering Irishmen――where? Making trouble afresh, which may you have to bear! Yet, no! for departure from office is near; Peace, retrenchment, reform―― _Chief_―― You be――! Well, I don’t fear. For though weighted by taxes and harassed by foes, Still England, while life in each British breast glows, Shall, queen among nations in ages to come, Exult in libertas―― _Wizard_―― But _not_ imperium. RAD ―――― In March, 1882, “The Weekly Dispatch” had a Competition for Parodies of the first eighteen lines of “Lochiel’s Warning,” having reference to the House of Lords’ Select Committee on the Irish Land Act. The first prize was awarded to Mr. Jesse H. Wheeler, for the following:―― Old women! old women! prepare for the day When the Commons shall rule with an unopposed sway; For a dream of the future behold we to-night, While the hosts of Will Gladstone are massed for the fight. They guide us, they lead e’en their country and Queen―― Accursed be the puppets that trespass between! Poor Salisbury’s bunkum and muddling are vain, And the “shut up committee” is baffled, ’tis plain. For hark! that harangue, and those deep telling words―― What voice of the people defies the great Lords? ’Tis thine, William Gladstone, whose hearers await That scathing rebuff on the meddlers of State, A calm comes at finish, no challenge is there, But a silence prevails, then a sigh of despair. Shout, people! the Lords in humility bend; Oh, shout! this submission foreshadows the end. For this triumphant army the Lords can’t withstand, The Lords――whose foundations fast sink in the sand. ―――― The following Parody was also printed:―― O Cecil! O Cecil! beware of the day When the Commons shall meet thee in battle array; When the people’s stern will rushes on in its might, And the clans of the landlords are scattered in flight, Their standard shows ever “For kingdom and crown,” Hail! ye who shall trample the false device down, Proud sons of the people, as honest as plain, While _their_ selfish bosoms throb only for gain. But see! through the storm-clouds that gather afar, What falchion gleams like a meteor star? ’Tis thine, William Ewart; in dread they await The time when thy summons is heard at their gate. Already its prelude resounds in the air, And soon will be heard their last sigh of despair. Oh! Albion, long in captivity led, Soon, soon, will the term of thy thraldom be sped, And the standard of freedom shall gallantly wave Where rule by a class finds a dishonoured grave! JAMES ROBINSON. ――――:o:―――― The same original was again selected for a competition in the Weekly Dispatch, and the following prize poem was printed in that paper on September 14, 1884:―― O, Salisbury, Salisbury, beware of the day When the people shall meet thee in hostile array! For what can it end in excepting thy flight? Whilst thy Tory companions are scattered in fight, It is not a contest ’twixt people and crown, And woe to the lords who would trample them down! Brave Gladstone advances his arguments plain, And Tory mis-statements are routed and slain. And hark! ’mid the mutt’rings of those you would dare, What cry loud and earnest is borne on the air? ’Tis “Down with the Lords!” and, though Gladstone deplores, The people in anger will surge at your doors. Then take Gladstone’s warning, your error repair, Ere we wring our just rights from your fear and despair; Stay, Salisbury, then, ere the hour is too late, And you and your lords meet a merited fate! ALBERT OTLEY. ―――― GLADSTONE’S WARNING. (_Nothing to do with Lochiel’s Warning._) O Tories! O Tories! beware of the day When my legions shall meet you in battle array! For the state of the poll in a vision I trace, With a name at the top, and a name at the base; Ye rally and cry: “For ourselves and the Crown!” And ye hoodwink the people and trample them down. Proud Salisbury, descending, declares to the poor, That he works for them now――though he did not before. But hark! through the thunder and speech-laden air, Who is he that flies howling in rage and despair? ’Tis the loud Democrat, so triumphant of late, The country has snubbed him, and――shown him the gate! Weep, Tories! your tricks to the country are plain, O weep!――can ye hope to deceive them again? They know, though your speeches sound pleasant and smart, That the truth on your lip is a lie at your heart! _The Judge_, November 28, 1885. ――――:o:―――― YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. A NAVAL ODE. Ye Mariners of England! That guard our native seas: Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle, and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave!―― For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave. Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep; Her march is o’er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below,―― As they roar on the shore, When the stormy tempests blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger’s troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. THOMAS CAMPBELL. Campbell began this famous Ode, in Edinburgh, in 1799, and finished it at Altona in 1800. He at first styled it “Alteration of the old ballad ‘Ye Gentlemen of England’ composed on the prospect of a Russian War;” it was published early in 1801, in the _Naval Chronicle_, with the line “Where Granvill (boast of freedom) fell,” instead of “Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,” this being an allusion to the brave Sir Richard Granvill, who was killed in 1591, in the fight of the “Revenge” against the Spanish Armada. After the death of Lord Nelson, at Trafalgar, in 1805, Campbell revised the poem, and then introduced the beautiful line “Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell.” The poem is frequently printed with the original date of 1800, and with the line about the fall of Nelson, without any explanation of these facts, thus making it appear that Campbell had anticipated the loss of the great sailor five years before it occured. ―――― YE KITE-FLYERS OF SCOTLAND. Ye kite-flyers of Scotland, Who live from home at ease; Who raise the wind, from year to year, In a long and strong trade breeze: Your paper-kites let loose again On all the winds that blow; Through the shout of the rout Lay the English ragmen low; Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold, And the English ragmen low. The spirits of your fathers Shall peep from every leaf; For the midnight was their noon of fame, And their prize was living beef. Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell, Your paper kites shall show, That a way to convey Better far than their’s you know, When you launch your kites upon the wind And raise the wind to blow. Caledonia needs no bullion, No coin in iron case; Her treasure is a bunch of rags And the brass upon her face; With pellets from her paper mills She makes the Southrons trow, That to pay her sole way Is by promising to owe, By making promises to pay When she only means to owe. The meteor rag of Scotland Shall float aloft like scum, Till credit’s o’erstrained line shall crack, And the day of reckoning come: Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers, Your hone-a-rie must flow, While you drink your own ink With your old friend Nick below, While you burn your bills and singe your quills In his bonny fire below. THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. The above parody is one of a series entitled _Paper Money Lyrics_, which were written in 1825-26, and published in a collected form in 1837. They had reference to the commercial panic of the winter 1825-26, and are consequently somewhat obsolete now. The other authors imitated besides Campbell, were Robert Southey, Poet Laureate; William Wordsworth, Thomas Moore, Samuel T. Coleridge, and Sir Walter Scott; whilst several old Scotch songs were also parodied, as for instance, CHORUS OF NORTHUMBRIANS. (_On the prohibition of Scotch One Pound Notes in England._) March, march, Make-rags of Borrowdale, Whether ye promise to bearer or order; March, march, Take-rag and Bawbee-tail, All the Scotch flimsies must over the border: Vanity you snarl anent New Act of Parliament, Bidding you vanish from dairy and “lauder” Dogs you have had your day, Down tail and slink away; You’ll pick no more bones on this side of the border. Hence to the hills where your fathers stole cattle; Hence to the glens where they skulked from the law; Hence to the moors where they vanished from battle, Crying, “De’il tak the hindmost” and “Charlie’s awa’.” * * * * * COMIC SONGS FOR YOUNG LADIES. Young gentlemen of England, That only mind your ease, Ah, little do you think how hard Young ladies try to please! Give ear unto the Milliners, And they will plainly show How the waist must be laced, By the Fashion-books to go. She who’d attract attention Must laugh at common sense, For when one goes to choose a dress, One mustn’t mind expense; Nor think how Pa will scold one, Whene’er he comes to know How he’s let into debt, By the Fashion-books to go. What terrible privations Young ladies must endure, A lovely face and form of grace From damage to secure! Their appetites they must control, Lest they too stout should grow, And in vain strive and strain By the Fashion-books to go. In days of bitter weather, Which winter doth enforce, One cannot think of such a thing As good thick boots, of course; With instep undefended, In rain, and hail, and snow, All so bold one gets cold, By the Fashion-books to go. _Punch_, December 14, 1844. ―――― YE PEASANTRY OF ENGLAND.[21] (_Dedicated to the Duke of Norfolk._) Ye Peasantry of England, Who till our fertile leas, How little do ye think a man May live on, if he please? Your weekly wages, it is plain, As far again would go, And keep you so cheap, (For Norfolk’s Duke says so) If, when hunger rages fierce and strong, To curry you would go, This powder, hungry fathers, From all expense will save; For if your children eat thereof, No other food they’ll crave; And any time that wages fall, (As oft they fall, you know,) ’Twill come cheap, a pinch to steep In water――a pint or so; And when hunger rages fierce and strong, To your curry powder go. Our labourers need no dainties, But something strong and cheap; No steak from off the rump they crave, No chop from off the sheep: With curry powder thrice a week, Warm into bed they’ll stow, Nor ever roar out for more―― Their place so well they know; But when hunger rages fierce and strong, To the curry powder go. The ’tato crops of England May all to gangrene turn, While Norfolk’s Duke about your lot His wise head shall concern. Meanwhile, ye hardy labourers, Your song of thanks should flow To the fame of his name Who the powder made you know: Which, when hunger rages fierce and strong, Will set you in glow. _Punch_, January, 1845. ―――― ODE TO THE “SPECIALS.” Ye Constables of London, That guard our Cockney plain, Whose staves have braved for several hours The Chartists and the rain, To Clerkenwell come forth once more To meet your ancient foe, And go then at the men Who never struck a blow At the men who spout so loud and long, But never strike a blow! Our London needs no barriers, No forts along the street; Her faith is in her Specials’ staves, Her trust is in their feats! With their truncheons of old oak They fright the Chartists so, That they roar all the more, But they never strike a blow! Yes, although they spout so loud and long, They never strike a blow. The maniac mob of England Shall yet some reason learn, Till humbug’s dreary night depart, And the star of sense return! Then, then, ye cockney warriors, Our half and half shall flow To the fame of your name, And every one shall know Of your prowess ’gainst the noisy mob Who never struck a blow. _The Puppet Show_, June 10, 1848. (Written at the time of the Chartist movement, when the late Emperor Napoleon III, was sworn in as a special Constable.) ―――― YE SHIP BUILDERS OF ENGLAND. Ye Ship builders of England, That load our native seas With craft not fit to brave a year The battle or the breeze: Such rubbish do not launch again, Top heavy, dull, and slow As they creep through the deep Whatever wind may blow. The spirits of retrenchment Shall start from every wave, For in the sea economy Through you has found a grave. Thousands and thousands you have sunk In ships that will not go; For they creep through the deep Whatever wind may blow. The costly ships of England For fire-wood yet may burn, Till to the models of the past Her shipwrights shall return. Then, then, ye clumsy shipbuilders, Our song no more will throw All the blame on your name, Which now merits every blow. _Punch_, December, 1849. ―――― “YE SUBALTERNS IN ENGLAND.” _From_ TUFF, _of the Fusiliers in the Crimea, to_ MUFF, _of the Grenadiers, at St. James’s_. Ye subalterns in England, Who live a life of ease, How little do ye think upon Our sufferings o’er the seas. To sup, lunch, dine, and lunch again, Upon fried pork we go, And three-deep, we’ve to sleep, In the trenches all a-row, With the batteries roaring loud and long, Four hundred guns or so! The ghosts of clothing colonels Would shudder in their graves; For no two of us are rigged the same, And scarce a fellow shaves. Light cavalry and heavy swell Black as coal-heavers show; You can keep clean so cheap, But here a tub’s no go; For water you’ve to shell out strong, And then it’s salt, you know. Out here we need no boot-jacks, For in our boots we sleep, One never sees a dressing-case, And hair brushes are cheap. Deuce a cigar one gets to smoke; Short pipes we’re glad to blow; And we draw rum from store, As we can’t have Bordeaux―― The point is, something short and strong, Although it may be low. But round the flag of England We’ll our last cartridge burn, Till we have made the Russians smart, And victors home return. Then, when, as veteran warriors, At fête and ball we show, With the fame of our name, The ladies’ hearts will glow, And while you swells are voted bores, The pace, oh, shan’t we go! _Punch_, November 18, 1854. Another Parody on “Ye Mariners” appeared in _Punch_, December 11, 1852. It referred to a _fracas_ which had taken place between two Members of Parliament, and has now no interest whatever. ――――:o:―――― A BALLAD BY A BISHOP. (_With Brass Accompaniment._) Ye clergymen of England, Who livings hold at ease, How little do you think upon The troubles of the Sees! Give ear unto my plaintive lay, And I’ll engage to show That a bishop’s poor and needy――whom for being rich and greedy, Up the stormy _Times_ doth blow――oh! oh! oh! oh! _Chorus expressive of Woe_. ’Tis a law of human nature, As you all of you must grant, That of worldly things, the more man has The more he’s sure to want, Then wonder not that we, on whom Such fatness men bestow, Are in heart sick and sore, and in want, far, far more Than you who sit below――oh! oh! oh! oh! That bishops who have been brought up Regardless of expense, In luxury must dine and sup, Seems merely common sense: And neither few nor far between Can be their wants, you know, When in health and at ease their appetites increase For the good things here below――O! O! O! O! Then think ye not a bishop’s less To be envied than be pitied, Rememb’ring that to meet distress So little he is fitted. Nor wonder he for pension wants Six thousand pounds or so―― Or I fear in a year, tho’ he’s lived like a Peer, On the parish he would go――o――o――o――Oh! (_Refrain_) ON THE PARISH HE WOULD GO! _Punch_. October 11, 1856. ―――― CRINOLINE’S RAGING FURY; _Or, the Fashionable Female’s Sufferings_. You rustic maids of England, Who dress yourselves with ease, Ah, little do you think how hard It is French taste to please. Give ear unto the milliners, And they will plainly show, With what care, tight with air, They our Crinolines do blow. * * * * * (_Five verses omitted._) The husband, and the lover, May simple gowns prefer, That fit the form, and, in a storm, With safety let one stir, Reproaches fierce, our hearts that pierce, Against our taste they throw, Which we poor things endure, Whilst our Crinolines we blow. We put on costly merchandise Of most enormous price, So much we need of drapery, To follow this device; We spend so much in drapery, Of such a size to show, And with toil our shape spoil, When our Crinolines we blow. _Punch_, January 31, 1857. ―――― YE COMMONERS OF ENGLAND. Ye Commoners of England, Who cannot sit at ease In the house designed by BARRY Four hundred odd to squeeze, Your straitened bounds enlarge again To hold two hundred more, Who now creep, in a heap, Through the narrow lobby door, When division bells ring loud and long, To the over-crowded floor. The sluggard and late comer Their right to seats must waive, But a card stuck on the bench at prayers Will disappointment save. For architects will fail again Where BARRY failed before, And ye’ll creep, like penned sheep, Through another crowded door, While uttering curses loud and deep, To the over-crowded floor. In the present House of Commons But few attempt to speak, For some have not the gift of tongue, And some not that of cheek. But in the new Reformed House There be at least ten score Who, like BRIGHT, every night, Forth their eloquence will pour, And speeches make, both loud and long, As ne’er were heard before. To meet your wants in future, And find you room in turn. Gives HEADLAM, THOMSON HANKEY, And Bazley great concern: O’er plans and elevations Right patiently they pore, For they know ’tis no go To find space for any more, When debates are waxing loud and long, And the SPEAKER’S heard to snore. _Echoes from the Clubs_, November 27, 1867. ―――― THE SCREAM OF THE AMERICAN EAGLE; OR, THE CROW OF YANKEE-DOODLE. You sneaking skunks of England, Who stay at home at ease, Who think because you never fight You’re rulers of the seas: Another pirate launch again To match a New York foe, For the fame of your name Which has had so sad a blow, While we Yankees bluster loud and long, And over England crow. The shattered “Alabama” Lies deep beneath the wave, Your finest guns and gunners Their vessel couldn’t save, When our noble ship, the “Kearsarge,” Her shot and shell did throw, To the bottom in an hour Did the “Alabama” go, And we Yankees bluster loud and long, And over England crow. The flag of old Columbia Shall ne’er again be furled Till, having scourged the Southern States, We whip the whole wide world; With real lightning from our guns Our thunderbolts we’ll throw, Till not a single Britisher Upon the seas doth show, Then won’t we bluster loud and long And over England crow. Yes, then, you sneaking Britishers, Our song and feast shall flow When we sink your Island, Queen and all, Old ocean’s depths below, And masters of the ’varsal airth We’ll liquor to and fro, Drink gin-slings with our Irish slaves And trumpets loudly blow To the fame of our name, And o’er the whole world crow. From _Lyrics and Lays_, by PIPS (Wyman Bros., Calcutta, 1867). ―――― THE FENIANS’ RAGING FURY: _Or, Legal Ireland’s Sufferings_. Ye gentlemen of Ireland Who live abroad at ease, A mighty little wonder ’tis That you are absentees. Give heed unto the newspapers, And they will daily show All the crimes――see the _Times_―― When the crimson drops do flow. All we that would live landlords Must bear arrears of rent, And little though we should be paid Or none, must be content; Or else, a tenant’s bullet Will quickly lay us low; With a ball he pays all, Whilst the crimson drops do flow. * * * * * Not Irish landlords only, Thus live in care and dread; Their stewards and their agents too May look to be shot dead. Whoever makes an enemy Is very soon let know, What is what, by a shot, When the crimson drops do flow. * * * * * If all conciliation Is wasted, nought remains But to renew an iron rule, Stern penalties and pain, At least empower our magistrates To cage each public foe, With the speed which we need When the crimson drops do flow. _Punch_, March 12, 1870. ―――― YE SCAVENGERS OF ENGLAND. Ye Scavengers of England! Whose cart one seldom sees Without unpleasant consciousness There’s something in the breeze! Leave other garbage to its fate, And here your prowess show! And sweep through the heap From King Street up to Bow; Where the struggle rages all day long, From King Street up to Bow! The Duke may wish you farther, The question try to waive; But, bear in mind, _that_ filthy slush Might prove his Grace’s grave! And should he, by some chance, go down _Himself_, he’d swear you’re slow, As ye sweep through the heap From King Street up to Bow! We boast we need no bulwarks Our social rights to keep; Yet, if we wish to purchase plums, We do it――ankle deep! And though we often, through the _Times_, Our indignation show, The while we roar, the loads still pour From King Street and from Bow; And the struggle lasts the whole day long, From King Street down to Bow! The dirty flags of Mudford At last shall have their turn! No more for rotting refuse prove A putrid public churn! So up, ye British Scavengers, A decent garden show, Where Duchesses henceforth may――leap! From King Street up to Bow! And thank their stars you’ve made a sweep From King Street up to Bow! _Punch_, October 16, 1880. This Parody was accompanied by a portrait of the Duke of Bedford, the owner of this filthy, inconvenient, and mismanaged market. ―――― TO MILLINERS AND MILLIONARES. _A modiste address by an Æsthetic Renegade._ Ye milliners of England, Who clothe so many shes, Whose stuffs have never found their peers, Oh, listen if you please. Your standard prices pray keep down, To hold the trade in tow, For thus you’ll reap and you’ll keep Of customers a flow; Though you make toilettes loud and long Now trains have ceased to grow. The spirits of your tailors Shall start with every fold, For Paris ’twas from whence they came, And their reward was gold; Where Worth and mighty Felix dwell There is a better show, Where they _do_ reap and _do_ keep Of customers a flow, And say you haven’t the “haut ton,” And are most sadly slow. Britannia needs no bustles, No heels of slender height, Her walk should e’er be straight and sure, Her dresses not too tight. With simple taste _do_ loop them up And trim them down below: Ah! but you say, “that’s not the way O’er other firms to crow!” Well, then――(_despairingly_)――make your toilettes loud and long, We will not say you “No!” (_Sarcastically_――) May the ladies fair of England Ever live and learn To be extra grateful for your deeds And give you some return! We sing to _you_, fair modistes, To Messrs. Worth and Co., To the fame of your name, And may fools of fashion flow, While you make dresses more and more, And bows and buttons grow. From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.) ―――― TORPEDO TERRORS. _Our Poet has revised Campbell’s Lyric in accordance with the New System of Naval Warfare_). Ye mariners of England, Be vigilant to seize The flag that braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze; And if your ships be launched again To meet a foreign foe, Ere ye sweep through thöe deep Send your divers down below, For that dread explosive swift and strong, The sneaking Tor-pe-dö. When your heroic fathers Their foes a thrashing gave, On the deck above they sought for fame, Not _underneath_ the wave. When Blake and mighty Nelson fought They dealt no dastard blow, But now we sweep o’er the deep, Both cautiously and slow, Fearing the din and the secret fire Of the Brigand Tor-pe-dö. Britannia needs new bulwarks, New towers along the steep, If far below the mountain wave These hidden reptiles creep; No thunders from our broadsides now May quell the floods below, If when the proud ships float along The swift steam launches throw Beneath the keels of ironclads strong The coward Tor-pe-dö. Though soon beneath our vessels They may terrific burn, With ships of steel and hearts of oak We trust their power to spurn; That still our ocean warriors To sea may safely go, And win new fame for England’s name With an open-handed blow, While the enemy’s fleet is blown sky high With their own vile Tor-pe-dö. _Funny Folks._ ―――― YE INFANTRY OF ENGLAND. A Military Ode. Imitated from Campbell. “_Fas est et ab hoste doceri._” Ye Infantry of England, Supposed to guard our shores, Who made a precious mess of it In trying to pot the Boers, Your ready rifles take again, And try another style; Nor fool by old rule While the foreign critics smile, Whilst the Dutchman chuckles loud and long, And our foreign critics smile. BRITANNIA needs instructors To teach her boys to shoot, Fixed targets and mere red-tape drill Have borne but bitter fruit. Our blunders are a standing joke, The scandal of our Isle, And the Boer loud doth roar, Whilst our foreign critics smile. Whilst the Teuton guffaws loud and long, And our foreign critics smile. The cartridges of England In waste terrific burn; In sighting and in snap-shots, we From foes have much to learn. Then come, ye pipeclayed Infantry, And go to school awhile, Till the fame of your aim Shall no more make foemen smile; Till the Dutchman’s chuckle’s heard no more, And your foes have ceased to smile. _Punch._ ―――― THE PERILS OF PARLIAMENT. Ye Gentlemen of England, Who stay at home at ease, Ye little think upon the ills That threaten our M.P.’s! Now that throughout the House again The flood of talk will flow, And will roar O’er the floor While the storms of party blow, While discussion rages loud and long, And the storms of party blow! The Spirit of Obstruction Will start from every side; New coalitions will be formed, Old combinations tried; The Alderman will shout “Yah! Yah!” Lord Randolph talk more stuff, Whilst a roar O’er the floor Will proclaim his new rebuff, And noises weird and varied tell That Warton’s taking snuff. His meteor pocket-handkerchief, Shall oft terrific burn, Whilst weary legislators long, But vainly, to adjourn; Shall wave whilst dreary platitudes Tempt Ministers to weep, Or some bore On the floor Talks the faithful few to sleep; Whilst the dazed but ever-active “whips” Their endless vigil keep. Yes, Gentlemen of England, Do picture, if you please, The fate that probably awaits Your sorely-tried M.P.’s. Think of those frequent dinners Of which they’ll get no bite When the bell Sounds their knell, And compels them to the fight; Till the lobbies echo with the groan Of outraged appetite! Think of the miles of walking Divisions will impose, On those who, spite their gouty pains, Must follow “Ayes” or “Noes.” Think of the cramps they must endure When furtive naps they take, With what racks In their backs They will suddenly awake; When they have slumbered in their seats For their constitution’s sake. “Britannia needs no bulwark”―― Or so her poets claim―― But he who makes Britannia’s laws Should have an iron frame. Yes, he _does_ need a bulwark ’Gainst all the session woes, ’Gainst the roar Of the bore, And the battle’s stress and blows! If his digestion be not sound, He scarce will see its close. For dark is the horizon, And on the rising breeze, Clouds, shaped like “all-night sittings,” The weather-prophet sees; And fears that even pheasants The Sportsman shall lay low Ere the last Of the blast Through St. Stephen’s halls shall go; Ere the sharp “Hear, hear,” is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. _Truth_, February 7, 1884. ―――― YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. _The Salisbury Version of Campbell’s Song._ [It would appear from one of his recent speeches that Lord Salisbury considers Mr. Chamberlain a sham philanthropist, who only wishes to injure the poor innocent shipowners, and has no real desire to benefit seamen by his Merchant Shipping Bill.] Ye mariners of England, That trust in Joseph C., Whose tale has gulled a thousand ears, Receive the truth from me. He champions you for selfish ends, Does philanthropic Joe, And you’re “had” by the Rad, When the stormy winds do blow. Our sailors need no Bill-wark To guard them on the deep; Shipowners all are worthy folk, And calumny is cheap. Their vessels stand the tempests’ test, And never go below, So no more on that score, When the stormy winds do blow. Obstruction’s flag in Parliament Shall yet terrific burn, Till Gladstone’s rabble rout depart, And the Tory clan return. Then, then, ye ocean simpletons, Brum tactics we shall “stow,” None will back Merchant Jack, When the stormy winds do blow. _Funny Folks_, June 21, 1884. ―――― RULING THE WAVES. (_Freely adapted from Campbell._) Ye Mariners of England! Who’d guard our native seas, What think ye, lads, every few years Of this confounded breeze? They tell us we must launch more ships Ere we may match the foe, And weep O’er the deep, Whilst the Pressmen’s trumpets blow, While the squabble rages loud and long, And the Pressmen’s trumpets blow. The spirits of your fathers Would look extremely grave At doubts thus thrown upon the fact That Britain rules the wave. Officials on each other fall; One “Yes!” says, t’other “No!” And sweep O’er the deep, Of big figures in a row, Tabled Statistics stiff and long, And figures in a row. Britannia needs a Navy Her world-wide watch to keep, To ward her isle-encircling waves, And to patrol the deep. _That’s_ truth, and far beyond all joke, Plain facts from them we’d know, Who roar And deplore, That our Navy’s running low, That the Frank and Teuton fleets grow strong, Whilst our Navy’s running low. The money-bags of England The balance yet can turn. We’re quite prepared to freely “part,” Cheese-paring fudge we’d spurn. Facts, facts, ye ocean-warriors, Are what we fain would know! For the fame Of your name Every British heart will glow, When Party fights are heard no more And the Windbags cease to “blow.” _Punch_, October 4, 1884. ―――― YE RADICALS OF BRUMM’GEM. (A Song for the next Election.) Ye Radicals of Brumm’gem, With all your Caucuses, Whose noise has rung a year or two Just on a passing breeze, Your voice shall ne’er be raised again To deafen another foe; You shall fall, spouters all, When our party strikes the blow, And the battle will be short, I say, When our party strikes the blow! The demagogues and stumpers No more shall rant and rave, The platform was their field of fame, Th’ election is their grave. Where Bunkum, Humbug, Bluster spoke, Now silence you shall know, For you fall, stumpers all, When our party strikes the blow, And the battle will be short indeed When our party strikes the blow. Britannia’ll have no rebels Her soil in blood to steep; Her strength can crush the blustering knave―― Her wit the sly and deep; And class with class she reconciles And fuses high and low―― They unite for the fight And together strike the blow, And they make the battle short, I say, When, allied, they strike the blow. Conservatives of England; A light enlightening burn To help the poor and guide the rich Right Members to return. Then, then, you ranting Radicals, Our song and feast shall flow, As we tell how you fell When the nation struck the blow, How the battle was uncommon short When the nation struck the blow. _A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor_, London, 1884. ―――― PARODIES BY A PREMIER. (_Addressed to the L――――s of the A――――y._) “Ye Mariners of England,” (I’ll term you if you please), Whose brag has raised, a hundred times, A Parliament’ry “breeze!” Your gallant features blanch again Beneath another blow. As ye creep down the steep “Companion” stairs below; While the crisis rages loud and long, And you have to keep below. “The spirits of your fathers” Won’t “start from every wave”―― For the deck “it was their field of fame,” And Kensal Green “their grave,” “Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell” You’ll have no chance to go, Nor to creep down the steep “Companion” stairs below; While the crisis rages loud and long, And you have to keep below. “Britannia needs” her “bulwarks” And “towers along the steep;” Her ships crawl “o’er the mountain waves,” Her navy’s “on the cheap,” With blunders from her naval L――ds She riles the tars below, And they swear――you’re aware―― “When the stormy winds do blow,” ’Cause their awkward squadrons all go wrong, “When the stormy winds do blow.” “The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn”―― They say――when Liberal L――ds depart, And Tory ones return. Then, then, ye ocean-amateurs! Their song and jest shall flow, To make game of your name When you’ve ceased to go below; When my fiery flights are heard no more, And you’ve ceased to go below. _The Globe_, June 18, 1885. ―――― SONG AT SCARBOROUGH. _During the Match Gentlemen of England_ v. _Players of England, September_ 3, 1885. Ye Gentlemen of England, Who smite for twos and threes, One bat has swiped for twenty years, That bat is W. G.’s. That wondrous willow waves again To match the old, old foe, And spanks through their ranks Whilst the bowlers puff and blow, Though Tom Emmett sends them swift and straight, And the “field” do all they know. Britannia need not tremble Whilst he his “block” can keep, And slog for sixes and for fours, Though the field stand close or deep There’s “powder” yet in every stroke, His “drives” like lightning go, And men roar as the score Swells at every swashing blow, Though Ulyett “sends ’em down” like hail, And Peate his best doth show! The Cricket fame of England Shall yet in brightness burn, And we can wait without blue funk That Cornstalk Team’s return, Whilst W. G. can show such form After twenty years or so; The fame of his name Sounds wherever Britons go, And the mighty score on Scarborough’s shore Should bring him “one cheer mo’!” _Punch_, September 12, 1885. ―――― ON CONCEDING THE SATURDAY IN CHRISTMAS WEEK, 1884. Ye Shopkeepers of London, Who live in lavish ease; We beg of you for once to hear Your poor employés pleas. There is no need for us to say How hard their daily task; Then give the one short Saturday Which they this Christmas ask! * * * * * Ye Merchants, too, of London, Who Christmas will enjoy, Until a glut of luxuries Your appetites will cloy; Come, think of those whose tired hands shake, As at your books they toil; And, oh, do not, for pity’s sake, Their taste of Yule-tide spoil! * * * * * _Truth_, December 18, 1884. Another long imitation of the same original appeared in _Truth_, Sept. 25, 1879, commencing “Ye Ministers of England.” Amongst the curiosities of literature may be classed an extraordinary collection entitled “DIVINE SONGS OF THE MUGGLETONIANS,” printed in 1829, and now very scarce. Amongst these so-called Divine Songs are some to be sung to such tunes as “God save the King,” “Hearts of Oak,” “De’il tak the wars,” and one there is which commences as follows, in imitation of Campbell’s _Mariners_:―― “You faithful Muggletonians who truly do believe The doctrine of Muggleton to be the same as Reeve; Let no wise anti-followers infuse into your ear, That a Prayer, Christ does hear, from us mortals here below.” ――――:o:―――― Campbell’s poems seem to be especially favored by the Editor of the Parody Competitions in _The Weekly Dispatch_, as, in addition to those already alluded to, he also selected “The Maid’s Remonstrance” for political parodies, and the following examples were printed, March 1, 1885:―― THE BENCH OF BISHOPS. Never working, ever wooing, Loving fat things, wealth pursuing; Know ye not the wrong ye’re doing, O ye favoured few? All your lives obstruction brewing. Cease, or else be true! Measures banished, wrongs not righted. See your Church, how disunited! See the scores of bills you’ve blighted In the House of Peers! Cringing, wav’ring, and benighted, ’Midst your country’s tears. Yet you deem yourselves a blessing―― Sleek and fat, and self-caressing, Time is short, and needs are pressing; Soon you’ll have to go. Dull and useless, always messing; Dotard’s all, and slow. JAMES TURNER. ―――― RANDOLPH’S REMONSTRANCE TO SIR STAFFORD. Never fighting, ever cooing, Still a fruitless course pursuing; Read you not the wrong you’re doing In my cheek’s pale hue? All my lifelong hopes eschewing―― Fight, or cease to coo! Gordon murdered, pledges slighted, Still our ways are disunited. When the goal is well-nigh sighted Feeble funk appears; Vacillation so benighted. Is for Lib’ral fears. Office――once your dearest blessing; Place――we both would be possessing! Hopes――a mutual soul confessing, Soon you’ll make them grow Dim, and worthless our caressing―― Yours with age, mine woe. HENRY L. BRICKEL. ―――― BRITANNIA’S REMONSTRANCE. Never peaceful, ever doing, Still the phantom, Fame, pursuing, And askance the straight path viewing―― All for pow’r and place! Future storms for me you’re brewing; Cease, or veil my face! Where is now the troth we plighted? Both our hearts are disunited; Freedom’s lamp one day we lighted, Now ’tis quenched with tears. Heroes murdered, great hopes blighted, Roused are all our fears. Once you earned my richest blessing, Thrilled my soul with your caressing Each a mutual love confessing, Soon its sweets you’ll miss, For your love’s not worth possessing While War’s lips you kiss. J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT. ―――― STAFFY’S REMONSTRANCE. Never winning, ever wooing, Still the sweets of place pursuing, And the cause of my undoing, Randolph――it is you! All your life seems spent in brewing Mischief ever new, Rivals bullied and indicted, Still our ranks are disunited; When your glowworm lamp is lighted Mine half-quenched appears; I must wander on benighted ’Mid’st the groans and cheers. Would you but bestow your blessing, How I’d purr at your caressing! But your pranks are so distressing Soon you’ll make me trow Place itself’s not worth possessing If you plague me so! GOSSAMER. ――――:o:―――― THE EXILE OF ERIN. There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye’s sad devotion, For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh! “Sad is my fate”! said the heart-broken stranger, “The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers liv’d, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh!”[22] * * * * * THOMAS CAMPBELL. ―――― ENGLISH MELODIES. “Unhappy little John, the once popular representative of Westminster, is, as every body knows, kicked out of the seat he has so long occupied, and has resigned the office in which he, for so short a period, was suffered to luxuriate. In the expressive words of the poet we may exclaim, Joy, joy for ever! the task is done, The city’s free and _Evans_ has won. It will be seen from the following splendid ebulition of true pathos, that little Hobby in all his misery for the loss of his office and his seat, has not yet forgotten his kind patron ‘_Dear De Vear_,’ to whom his heart still turns with a most appropriate gratitude.” AIR.――_Erin go bragh._ There came to the hustings an exile from office, The damp at his heart it was heavy and chill, For his sal’ry he sigh’d, when one night he threw off his Patriotic disguise just assum’d for the bill. But the poll booth attracted his ancient devotion, As it stood, and he saw the electors in motion, And thinks he “pon my soul I’ve a very strong notion, They’ll return Colonel Evans! De Vear then go bragh.” “Oh sad is my fate,” said the wretched ex-placeman, “Some Tories or Whigs to a borough can flee, But I have no chance, for so great’s my disgrace man, A seat in St. Stephen’s remains not for me. Ah, never again from John Bull’s breeches pocket, Whence my dad draws a pension; (God grant they won’t dock it), My pay shall I take in my coffers to lock it, Unless re-elected, De Vear then go bragh. Oh office my haven, though by me forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy lucrative store, But alas, by the Colonel thrown out I awaken, And sigh for the votes that support me no more. And thou my Lord Grey, will you never replace me, In a post where electors no longer can chase me; Ah, never again shall old Glory embrace me, Or will he too go out with his Hob to deplore. Where now is the Westminster rump that supported Sir Frank and myself? we must weep for its fall, And where is the junta, that influence sported, And where is De Vear too the dearest of all? Alas what an ass I have been for declining My seat! what a fool I have been for resigning My office! but now there is no use in whining, It cannot my seat or my office recal. But yet all my bitter reflections repressing, There is one dying wish my fond bosom shall draw, De Vear, thy old _protegé_ gives thee his blessing, Thou ghost of the rump! my De Vear then go bragh. Kicked out of my seat, when (oh bitterest potion) I’ve no longer the means of proposing a motion In the House, I’ll still out of it sing with devotion, You’ve been a kind friend dear De Vear then go bragh.” _Figaro in London_, May 18, 1833. This Parody refers to the late Sir John Cam Hobhouse (Lord Broughton), who long represented Westminster in Parliament, he was succeeded by Sir De Lacy Evans, then Colonel De Lacy Evans. The “Sir Frank” alluded to in the fourth verse was Sir Francis Burdett, a very advanced Radical politician for those days. He was the father of Lady Burdett Coutts, whose husband has recently been elected member for Westminster in the Conservative interest. ―――― THE EXILE OF ERIN; _Or, Mitchell in Norfolk Island_. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his breeches was heavy and chill; He thought of the days of his spouting and “beering,” As he rattled his chains on the wind-beaten hill. He looked towards the north with an air of devotion, And thought of the very green isle of the ocean, Which once he had put in such awful commotion By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-bragh! “Sad is my fate,” said the gray-coated stranger, “My cousins, the apes to their caverns can flee, But I in a chain-gang of convicts must range here; Repose or tobacco exist not for me; Ne’er again in the snug little bar Where my ancestors dwelt, shall I smoke the cigar. Or cheer on the rabble of Dublin to war By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-Bragh! _The Puppet Show_, May 27, 1848. ―――― THE VISIT TO ERIN. There came an ex-Premier from England to Erin, If not to his tongue, to give rest to his quill. From his country he came in the hope of repairing Some errors whose memory clings to him still. Can we doubt that e’en now, as he traversed the ocean, His conscience recalled with a doubtful emotion The day when, to show to the priests his devotion, He danced to the music of Erin-go-bragh? O fond is my breast, said the time-serving stranger, O Erin! dear Erin! my heart yearns to thee. The day still I rue when we parted in anger, For a place and a party remain not in me. Then grant me once more for a day or an hour The pleasures of office, the semblance of power. O cover my head with the shamrock’s green flower, And I’ll dance to the measure of Erin-go-bragh. O Erin! dear island! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit the Speaker’s right hand; But, alas! with the dawn’s reappearing I waken, Regretful I broke with the Irish brass band. O fate, cruel fate! would’st thou only replace me On the Treasury Bench, with few Tories to face me, With Biggar, O’Donnell, Parnell to embrace me, I’d seem like their leader, though they might command. Where is my great University measure? Prelates and priests, did ye weep o’er its fall? O how can you dwell on its failure with pleasure, Which gave to you Trinity College and all? O my poor pen, long abandoned to railing! O my sad tongue, is thy influence failing? Pamphlets and speeches are both unavailing, My power and my party they cannot recall. O that, all sad recollections suppressing, From the future one bright grain of hope I could draw, I’d sing, over-coming, all memories distressing, Home Rule for ever! sweet Erin-go-bragh! Sea-sick and ill when I feel the ship’s motion, Still joyously homeward I’ll traverse the ocean, And murmur, in token of grateful devotion, Home Rule for ever! and Erin-go-bragh! From “_They are Five_,” by W. E. G., 1877. ―――― In the thirtieth of the Poem Competitions in “The World,” two prizes were offered for poems on “Ireland’s Distress,” the model selected being Campbell’s “Exile of Erin.” The first prize was gained by Captain Walford (Kommitop); the second by Miss Chamberlayne (Hypophosphate.) The Poems were printed in “The World” March 3, 1880. IRELAND’S DISTRESS. I saw in a dream the sad angel of Erin; Her green robe hung loosely, so withered her form; For her country she sighed, as though almost despairing, Of shelter and rest from the pitiless storm. Though the day-star of Hope, rising fair o’er the ocean, Shone bright on the mist of her eye’s sad devotion; Yet scarcely her lips, in their trembling emotion, Could whisper the anthem of Erin-go-bragh. ‘Sad is my fate!’ said the heart-broken stranger; ‘The wild deer and fox shall be monarchs alone; For, racked by the tortures of famine and danger, To new homes and new countries my children have flown, Never again, when the hill-tops are hoary And the winter winds wail, shall they list to the story, Which their forefathers loved, of their countrymen’s glory, Nor join in the chorus of Erin-go-bragh. Britannia, my sister, though sad and forsaken, In hope I yet linger about thy rough shore; Alas, has my anguish no power to awaken Some pity to love, and some aid to restore? O happy land, only thou can’st replace me In a haven of peace! If thine arms shall embrace me, Never again shall my children disgrace me, Nor die at a distance, but live in my heart. Now is the cabin-door open and shattered, Father and mother are weeping within; Gone are their kindred, their friends are all scattered, Their children with famine are wasted and thin. Ah, my sad heart, as I look on this sorrow, Hopeless to-day, and despairing to-morrow, How can I dare any comfort to borrow From dreams which the future may blast and destroy? Yet all the thoughts of its anguish suppressing, One only fond wish my sad heart can desire―― That my sons’ bitter curses may change to a blessing, As faction shall languish and discord expire! Now wild with distress is my isle of the ocean; Then gladness shall swell my fond breast with emotion, And my children shall sing with new love and devotion, Erin mavourneen, Erin-go-bragh!’ KOMMITOP (CAPTAIN WALFORD). ―――― SECOND PRIZE. There crept o’er the loveliest isle of the ocean The foretaste of famine, foreshadow of pain, And winter and want, with each fiercer emotion. Long-suffering patience had worn to the wane; For the food of the famishing people was rotten, And the hate that is often of hunger begotten Embittered the hearts with sedition besotten, And the singers of Erin were silent again. O, where is the ardour of Shiel and O’Connell, The heart-burning eloquence poured in the cause? Would it stimulate Parnell, impassion O’Donnell, If of hunger they felt for a moment the claws? For small is the gain and the glory ensuing From the tortuous path that their feet are pursuing, And slow the advance unto Ireland accruing, From forcing the coach-wheels of Albion to pause. ‘Sad is our fate,’ cries the famishing peasant; ‘The wild bird is left to its home on the tree, And corn is full lavishly flung to the pheasant, But no roof and no food for my children and me. O, harder our fate than the horrors of fiction! When thrust by the merciless laws of eviction From the home that is held by the heart’s predilection, We are forced o’er the bare breast of Erin to flee. Erin, our country, as, weak and heart-broken, We wander half-starved over mountain and shore, And search for a remnant of hope, or a token That life may be glad to our spirits once more; Can we trust that the hearths, now forlorn and forsaken, To welfare shall warm and to laughter awaken, And the dust from the wings of thy glory be shaken To the future reëcho of Erin-go-bragh! Sweet solace it were to the heart of the dying, That throbs his last pulse out on pitiless ground, Could he know that the land upon which he was lying Would smile into gladness, with plenty abound; And the trials and straights of despair and starvation Through which he was fighting should end in salvation To happier sons of a new generation, Who will sing the old anthem of Erin-go-bragh.’ HYPOPHOSPHATE (MISS E. CHAMBERLAYNE.) ――――:o:―――― HOHENLINDEN. An imitation of Hohenlinden, written by Mr. F. B. Doveton, was given on page 28. It was descriptive of the Tay Bridge disaster, which happened in December, 1879. The subject was chosen for a prize competition in _The World_, the model selected being Campbell’s Hohenlinden, and the following poems appeared in that journal on January 21, 1880:―― THE TAY BRIDGE DISASTER. On Balgay when the sun was low, Pale gleamed the distant Grampian snow, And dark and muddy was the flow Through Strath-Tay ebbing rapidly. But Balgay saw another sight, When rose the wind at fall of night, And distant gleams of splendour light The darkness of her scenery. Mid light and darkness fast arrayed The Storm-King’s hosts commenced their raid, And every furious blast essayed To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the bridge with storm-gusts riven, Then rushed the cloud-wrack tempest-driven, And nearer ’neath the vault of heaven, Out flashed the train lights ruddily. But brighter still that light shall gleam, With one last flash o’er land and stream, And then shall vanish like a dream At daylight passing wearily. The coming sun shall light no more Yon bridge that spans from shore to shore, And dark Dundee bereft shall cower Beneath her smoky canopy. The horror deepens. Who can save Those rushing to a watery grave? Wave dashes wildly over wave, And leaps in dreadful rivalry. None, none shall part where many meet; The sand shall be their winding sheet; No churchyard turf shall veil their feet In their untimely sepulchre. CHEVY CHASE (J. F. BAIRD.) ―――― SECOND PRIZE. On Tay the summer sun sinks low, Soaring above the broad Firth’s flow; A thread athwart yon ruddy glow, The wondrous bridge winds airily. But halcyon days have taken flight, Wild howls the storm this winter’s night, And ’gainst that daring fabric light The tempest rages furiously. Homeward they wend from town and glade, Husband and wife, and youth and maid, For that dread race of death arrayed, An all-unconscious company. Forth speeds the train to ruin driven―― Is there no help, O pitying Heaven? No warning voice in mercy given Of the impending destiny? The signal beckons――on they go; Now o’er the bridge the lamp-lights glow, Where, in the shuddering depth below, The foam-flecked Firth roars hungrily. With straining eyes the watchers run, Longing to mark the passage done. In vain: the blast his prey has won, And on it swoops relentlessly. That fiery flash the signal gave; Down crashing through the maddened wave, Both bridge and freight have found a grave, Whelmed in one dire catastrophe. With questioning eyes the mourners meet, Blanched lips the fearful tale repeat; The wild wave rolling at their feet Mocks at their helpless misery. COURTHOPE (L. BECK.) ――――:o:―――― BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day’s renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark’s crown. And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on! * * * * * But the might of England flush’d To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush’d O’er the deadly space between. “Hearts of Oak,” our captains cried! when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back;―― Their shots along the deep slowly boom:―― Then ceas’d――and all is wail, As they strike the shatter’d sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. * * * * * THOMAS CAMPBELL. The two following parodies of this poem occur in _The University Snowdrop_, an Edinburgh College Magazine. These and the interesting explanatory notes which accompany them have been kindly furnished by Mr. James Gordon, F.S.A., Scotland. The winter of 1837-8 was very severe, and there was a heavy fall of snow in Edinburgh. On the 10th January some snowballing took place in front of the College, in which the students took part. The warfare between the students and the townspeople was renewed on the 11th, and became more serious. Several shop windows were broken, the shops were closed, and the street traffic suspended. The students, believing that the constables took the side of the mob against them, appeared on the 12th armed with sticks, to defend themselves against the constables batons. Then a regular riot took place, sticks and batons being freely used, and matters became so serious that the magistrates found it necessary to send to the Castle for a detachment of soldiers of the 79th Highlanders, which arrived and drew up across the College quadrangle, and peace was restored. Five students who had been most active in the fray were tried by the Sheriff and were acquitted. The trial lasted three days. Among the witnesses for the prosecution were the Lord Provost, some Bailies, and the heads of the police force. The students were defended by Patrick Robertson, in a most amusing speech. He was made a Lord of Session, and wrote some volumes of poetry, now unsaleable, if ever they did sell. Lockhart wrote an epitaph for him:―― “Here lies that peerless paper lord, Lord Peter, Who broke the laws of ‘gods and men’ and metre.” A report of the trial was published, which was followed by “_The University Snowdrop_, an appendix to the Great Trial, containing a selection of squibs, old and new, descriptive of the wars of the quadrangle and the consequences thereof. With magnificent embellishments.” Edinburgh, 1838. The “embellishments” are pen and ink portraits of the principal parties concerned in the riot, drawn by Edward Forbes, then a student, who became a Professor. (His widow married Major Yelverton, from which event sprang the famous case of Longworth against Yelverton.) BATTLE OF THE BALLS. Of Alma and the North, Sing the glorious day’s renown, When the students all stood forth ’Gainst the minions of the town. And their snowballs on the Bridge fleetly flew I can’t tell how or why, But each Student took a shy, And floored were passers by Not a few! Like ravens to the row, Came Pond and his Police, (For breaking heads, we know, Is their way of keeping peace,) It was two post meridiem by the bell: Up the Bridges as they dashed, The boldest looked abashed, For they knew they would be hashed Very well! Out the youth of Alma poured To anticipate the scene―― And the balls the faster showered O’er the deadly space between: “We’ll be licked!” bellowed Pond, “that’s the fact.” So around his band he looks, “Now go, B20, Snooks, And summon Bailie Crooks With the Act.” The Act was read in vain―― And the havoc did not slack, Till Crooks had fled again To the Council chambers back, And that there was a riot he would vouch: Then came the soldiers all, With their captains stout and tall, And sixty rounds of ball In their pouch. Out spake the Major then, And he trembled as he spoke―― “We are brothers――we are men―― By the Lord, my nose is broke! Are your cartridges, my men, duly rammed; Our patience you will tire Peace is all we require, Then yield, or we shall fire!” “You be d――――d!” Then the Provost forth he came, For he saw it was no go: Said he “It is a shame To treat the Students so,―― If you’ll promise, my young friends, to withdraw, No longer at the gate The Policemen shall await, And the vengeance I’ll abate Of the law.” “That will do,” the Students cried, And each band departed straight. And one by one they hied Through the lofty College gate. But they knew not how severely they were watched; For Pond and all his rout Raised a horrid shout, And as every man came out He was cotched. Brave hearts! who fought so well Once so faithful and so true, In your dungeon’s gloomy cell Our eyes shall weep for you. We’ll be bail for every one of you and bond! And when you all are freed, I think we are agreed On one article of creed, DOWN WITH POND!!! ―――― STANZAS ON A LATE BATTLE. Of the combat in the North, Sing the glorious days’ renown, When the Charlies’ fierce came forth, To defend the trembling town, While the ragged crew without, hiss and groan. Each student took his stand, Till the College gates were mann’d, And shillellahs in each hand, Proudly shone. Intent upon a row, Rose their clamour wild and loud, And in showers the snowballs flew, At the ragamuffin crowd. It was just two o’clock by the time; When the medicals came out, As each waved his cudgel stout, Cried “To crack a Charlie’s snout Is no crime.” So down the stairs they dashed, Spreading terror far and wide; Right and left the crabsticks smash’d; Yells were heard on every side. “Hit ’em hard,” was the cry――when each man With an adamantine whack, Made their empty noddles crack, Now, ye Charlies, pay them back!! If ye can!!! Again, again, again, And the havoc did not slack, Till to cut their sticks, they deign, And within the gates fly back. Stones and dirt along the streets, slowly boom; And the Charlies’ bruised and pale, With the mob behind their tail, Our environs to assail, Did presume. With joy ye students shout, At the tidings of your might, How ye made the claret spout! How the scoundrels mauled took flight! Until midst their howling and uproar, The Lobsters in were led, And the Riot Act was read, While the Provost popp’d his head Through the door. Brave hearts! turn out’s the word; Though you’ve leathered the police, Yet a baton’s not a sword, So leave the field in peace. And our bards shall sing the glory of the day, How many a skull and hat, To the tune of “Tit for Tat,” Was bash’d and batter’d flat, In the fray. KILSPENDIE. In the same volume (which is now very scarce) there are also Parodies of “Lochiel’s Warning,” entitled the “Student’s Warning,” one of a passage from _Marmion_, and another imitating _The Lady of the Lake_:―― “Hail to the chief who in triumph advances,” &c. headed “Clan Charlie’s Pibroch,” and a parody of Hamlet’s Soliloquy, commencing, “To stand or not to stand, that is the question?” This is headed, “The Policeman’s Soliloquy.” ――――:o:―――― THE BURNING OF THE PLAY-HOUSE. (_Improved from Campbell._) [Covent Garden Theatre was destroyed by fire on March 5, 1856, during a masked ball conducted by Anderson, the self-styled “Wizard of the North.”] Of the “Wizard of the North Sing the Tuesday’s night renown, When he let the gas break forth And burn the play-house down. And illuminated London brightly shown, While a masquerading band, Almost too drunk to stand, But all holding hand in hand, Revelled on. Detesting every note, (They’d been playing there from nine), The orchestra scarce kept From kicking up a shine. It was five of Wednesday morn, by the chime, And as each fiddler saith, Tobacco choked his breath, And he played, fatigued to death, Out of time. Any decent folks had blushed To assist at such a scene―― But, sudden, firemen rushed Where before they should have been, And “Fire! fire!” the Wizard cried, and the fun Stopped upon pallid lips, For the ceiling and the slips Glowed like a mountain’s tips In the sun. The Main! the Main! the Main! But beams came tumbling whack, And a shower of fiery rain Falls on the frightened pack, And each hurries from the menaced doom, And gents with terror pale Pay no heed to woman’s wail, And the flames at once prevail And consume. Down went Covent Garden then, Vain was the engine’s wave, Vainly the gallant men Struggled the wealth to save―― The clock twice saved away indeed they bring, But the Muse’s ancient seat Is a ruin most complete; Ashes, where song’s _élite_ Used to sing. And London’s blame was chief For the stupid heads of those Who have doubtless come to grief Through the Wizard’s vulgar shows. A play-house is intended for a play; If you let it for a night To a Quack, you but invite A fate that serves you right, You may say. Now joy old opera raise For the tidings of the night, Once more thy gas shall blaze, Once more thy songs delight, And though losing our fine house is a bore, Let us think of those who weep Their tools――by no means cheap―― A charred and melted heap On its floor. SHIRLEY BROOKS. ――――:o:―――― THE LAST GROWLER. (After Thomas Campbell’s _Last Man_――also after the Official Report that there are one hundred and fifty seven fewer Four-wheeled Cabs in London now than last year.) Four million souls without a Fly! Shall we _then_ realise Our lack of common comforts, born From lack of enterprise? I saw a vision in my sleep That caused me from my bed to leap, And skip around the room; I saw the Final Growler go Unhonoured, hideous, mean and slow, To its appointed doom! The gas-lamps had a sickly glare, And not a heart did bleed As passed that bony hulk along. Drawn by its bony steed; The Hansom Cabmen winked and leered, The very Crossing-Sweeper jeered, The street-boys raised a yell: And bliss o’er troubled spirits slid To see that Four-wheeled Monster bid To fares a long farewell! Yet, martyr-like, the Driver sat; He knew the end was near Of over-charge and under-pay, And did not shed a tear; Saying――“Too long I have delayed; My Cab is old, my Horse decayed, ’Tis mercy bids me bolt; For fifty years of mortal breath, We’ve jolted Passengers to death, And shall no longer jolt. “What though upon my seats have writhed The Great, perhaps the Good. Condemned in this proud Capital To use my box of wood? Yet now repentance, all too late, Makes me confess that ne’er did Fate A vehicle provide More maddening in each palsied shake, Or where long-suffering Fares might take, A more atrocious ride? “’Tis done! Oblivion’s curtain falls Upon the myriad men Who’ve blown me up, and knocked me down, And ‘had me up’ again. Those frowsy cushions bring not back Nor stretch four souls upon the rack By Nature made for twain! Oh, let this cramped roof-tree go, Also thy dirty straw below, Thou Vehicle of Pain! “Even I am weary now of playing My customary pranks; Rank idiocy it was to place Such Cabs upon the ranks! How came it, else, that London’s sons To stable-owning Goths and Huns For aid in vain did cry, While every Gent, and every Cad, In Aberdeen and Glasgow had His reputable Fly? “Go, Kings of Cabland, and reflect On London’s awful waste By not a single Four-wheeled Cab From Kew to Greenwich graced! Go, tell the world how you beheld A Jehu, bowed with shame and eld, Guiding his Growler mean,―― The general universe defy, To match for sheer obliquity, That ramshackle machine! _Punch_, September, 1885. ――――:o:―――― THE MASSACRE OF GLENHO. Through deep Glenho the owlet flits, That valley weird and lone; The chieftain’s aged widow sits Beside the bare hearth stone. Beside the bare and blighted hearth Whose fires, now quenched and black, Had seen five gallant sons go forth, And never one come back. ’Tis silent all! but hark――a cry And ghastly clamours wake The midnight glen. Then rose proudly That ancient dame, and spake―― “What mingled sounds of woe and wail Up Mortham’s valley spread? What shrieks upon the gusty gale Come pealing overhead? “I hear the pibroch’s piercing swell, The banshee’s scream I hear, And hark! again that stifled yell―― The _boderglas_ is near!! “The Boderglas with bloody brow And tresses dripping red―― I see him at the window now He shakes his gory head! “Then, daughter, to thy mother’s arms, Thus, thus, in close embrace, The messenger of death we’ll meet―― The slayer of our race. “Then do not weep, my daughter!”―― “Oh mother, ’tis not that―― But Donald Roy the carrotty boy HAS KILLED OUR OLD TOM CAT.” From _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell. Chatto and Windus, London,) ――――:o:―――― THE LAWN TENNIS MATCH. The summer day proved all too short, But light forbade the pleasant sport, And silent lay the tennis court, Where time had flown so rapidly. But morning saw another sight, When, after slumbers soft and light, The girls, once more, rushed forth to fight Upon the level greenery. On either side the net they stand, Each with her tennis bat in hand, The fairest maidens in the land, Opposed in bloodless rivalry! Then “faults” no longer were forgiven, Then o’er the net their balls were driven, And like the deadly bolts of Heaven, The “serves” in their velocity! But faster yet the balls shall fly Beneath the cloudless summer sky, And still more frequent be the cry Of “Deuce” that sounds so naughtily! ’Tis noon, but still resounds the blow, Though scorching hours may come and go, Those maidens, fleeter than the roe, Are ever darting rapidly! The combat deepens, Grace will win, In Jersey, fitting like her skin, Just give the ball a subtle spin, And snatch from Maud the victory! A few games more, and Grace _has_ won! “Ho! Claret Cup! we both are done!” And from the fury of the sun They scamper most bewitchingly! F. B. DOVETON. From _Society_. ――――:o:―――― “WE ARE RUINED BY CHEAP CHINESE LABOUR.” In _Punch_ for January 16, 1886, a Parody (in four verses) appeared apropos of an assertion that Chinamen were being largely employed on vessels of the Royal Navy, stationed in the China Seas. It commenced:―― Ye Mariners of England Who watch our distant seas, ’Tis very odd that you should be The half of you Chinese. It scarcely fits our notions To have you down below; And though your keep, perhaps is cheap, The news comes like a blow; To think we’ve got a Mongol Jack Gives one a dreadful blow. * * * * * THE PLEASURES OF HOPE. At Summer eve, when Heav’n’s aërial bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? ’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. * * * * * THOMAS CAMPBELL. ―――― CAMPBELL, UNDONE AND OUTDONE. When oftentimes the young aerial beau Spans on bright arch the glittering wheels below, Why to yon upland turns the ’cycling eye, Whose misty outline mingles with the sky? Why do those tracts of soberer tint appear More meet than all the landscape shining near? ’Tis _distance_ sends enchantment to his view, And lures the mounted with its azure hue. From _Lyra Bicyclica_, by Joseph G. Dalton. (Hodges and Co., Boston, 1885.) ――――:o:―――― Amongst the various other imitations of Campbell’s style the following are noteworthy:―― In “Rival Rhymes in honour of Burns,” by Samuel Lover (London, 1859), is a long poem entitled “A Spirit Lay from Hades,” imitating “The Battle of the Baltic,” it commences thus:―― Of Scotia and the North A loving son would sing, And to laud surpassing worth Would wake the silent string, Untouch’d since it sank to the tomb; But bardic fires still burn In the ashes of the urn, And glimmering back return Through the gloom. For BURNS this spirit lay Is wafted to the earth, In honour of the day That gave the poet birth. * * * * * “Rejected Odes,” edited by Humphrey Hedgehog, Esq., published by J. Johnston, London, 1813, a dreary little book, which was, no doubt, brought into existence in consequence of the success of “The Rejected Addresses,” contains poems which are supposed to bear some resemblance to those of Lord Byron, Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and others. Specimen the Ninth is devoted to the description of the sorrows of Ireland, written after the style of Campbell’s Exile of Erin. In “The Maclise Portrait Gallery” (Chatto and Windus) there is an excellent portrait of Campbell, who, comfortably seated in an arm chair, is enjoying a long pipe and a glass of whisky toddy:―― “There’s Tom Campbell in person, the poet of Hope, Brimful of good liquor, as gay as the Pope; His shirt collar’s open, his wig is awry, There’s his stock on the ground, there’s a cock in his eye. Half gone his last tumbler――clean gone his last joke, And his pipe, like his college, is ending in smoke. What he’s saying who knows, but perhaps it may be Something tender and soft of a bouncing ladye.” W. MAGINN. Robert Burns, _Born January_ 25, 1759. _Died July_ 21, 1796. [Illustration: T]he date of the birth of Burns has been variously given as January 25 and January 29, the former date is probably correct judging from the lines: “Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane. Was five and twenty days begun, ’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’ Blew hansel in our Robin.” It is now generally adopted, and the celebration of the Centenary of Burns’s birth was certainly held at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham, on January 25, 1859. Of all the Poems written by Burns no one is so grand, or so generally popular as Bruce’s address to his troops, which Burns is said to have composed as he rode home through a heavy storm. He sent the following draft of it to his friend Mr. George Thomson, in September, 1793, suggesting that the poem might be set to the old Scotch air HEY TUTTIE TAITTIE. BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS. On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn. (_As originally written by Burns._) Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, See the front o’ battle lower: See approach proud Edward’s power―― Chains and slaverie! Wha will be a traitor-knave? Wha can fill a cowards grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland’s king and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or Free-man fa’, Let him follow me? By oppression’s woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Let us DO or DIE! Mr. Thompson, in acknowledging the Poem, remarked:―― “Your heroic ode is to me the noblest composition of the kind in the Scottish language. I happened to dine yesterday with a party of your friends to whom I read it. They were all charmed with it, entreated me to find out a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest or grandeur as ‘Hey tuttie taittie.’ I have been running over the whole hundred airs, of which I lately sent you the list; and I think ‘Lewie Gordon’ is most happily adapted to your ode; at least with a very short variation of the fourth line, which I shall presently submit to you. There is in ‘Lewie Gordon’ more of the grand than the plaintive, particularly when it is sung with a degree of spirit which your words would oblige the singer to give it. I would have no scruple about substituting your ode in the room of ‘Lewie Gordon,’ which has neither the interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry that characterize your verses. Now the variation I have to suggest on the last line of each verse, the only line too short for the air, is as follows:―― Verse 1st, Or to _glorious_ victorie. 2nd, _Chains_――chains and slaverie. 3rd, Let him, _let him_ turn and flee. 4th, Let him _bravely_ follow me. 5th, But _they shall_, they shall be free. 6th, Let us, _let us_ do, or die! If you connect each line with its own verse, I do not think you will find that either the sentiment or the expression loses any of its energy.” Acting upon these suggestions Burns altered his Poem to suit the music, but in simplicity and grandeur the first version was far superior to the second. BANNOCKBURN. Robert Bruce’s address to his Army. ―――― Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled: Scots, wham Bruce has often led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victory! Now’s the day and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour See approach proud Edward’s power―― Edward! chains and slaverie! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! Wha for Scotland’s king and law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or Freeman fa’, Caledonia! on wi’ me! By oppression’s woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins. But they shall be――shall be free! Lay the proud usurper low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Forward: let us do or die! Curiously enough one of the earliest Parodies of this Poem is a satirical effusion directed against a victim of foul wrong and oppression, Caroline of Brunswick, wife of George IV., and her sympathisers, Sir John Cam Hobhouse, Joseph Hume, Alderman Wood, and her advocate Henry Brougham (_Broom_), afterwards Lord Chancellor. Brandenburgh House, at Hammersmith, was the residence of Queen Caroline. Gulls, who’ve heard what HOBHOUSE said! Gulls whom JOSEPH HUME has led! Who deem that Pater Moore has head For Plans of Liberty! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, See the face of GIFFORD lour, See approach the lawyer’s power, Bags and knavery. Who’ll believe Italian spies? When honest _Times_ indignant cries, That all they say are monstrous lies, Foul conspiracy! Who for England’s Queen so bright, To purchase Plate subscribes his mite, Or signs addresses, wrong or right, To Brandenburgh with me! By our _Wood_ that shields the Queen, By our _Broom_ that sweeps all clean, We will go through thick and thin, But she shall be free! Lay her proud accusers low, Pure she’ll prove as “unsunned snow,” Can we but persuade them so, Let us on and see! ―――― BRITONS WHO HAVE OFTEN BLED. Britons who have often bled In the cause that Hampden led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victory, Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, See the front of battle lour, See approach your tyrant’s power, Chains and slavery! Who would be a traitor knave? Who would fill a coward’s grave? Who so base as be a slave? Traitor, coward, turn and flee! Who at Liberty’s sweet cry Freedom’s sword would raise on high? Freeman stand, or freeman die, Hark! your chief cries “on with me!” By oppression’s woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay your proud oppressors low! Tyrants fall in every blow! For the cause of God below, Is the cause of Liberty. From _The Republican_, October 8, 1819. R. Carlile, printer, 55, Fleet Street, London. ―――― GLEE. Folks who’ve oft at Dolby’s fed! Folks who’ve nibbled Batson’s bread! Folks who’ve ta’en a Hummum’s bed! Come not o’er the sea: Victuals here are but so, so; Hollands, too, run very low; Scarce is coffee and _cocoa_; Sojourn where you be. Now’s the time and now’s the hour, For little bread, there being no flour; Liberty’s a glorious dower―― Though ragged, let’s be free! We will walk the unlopp’d wood, And taste what Nature grows for food―― Grumbling here does little good! So hail, glad Liberty! From _The Fancy_, a selection from the Poetical remains of the late Peter Corcoran, 1820. The same volume also contains a poem entitled _The Fields of Tothill: A Fragment_. This is written in imitation of Lord Byron’s _Don Juan_. ―――― In 1823 the John Bull newspaper contained a parody of “Scots wha hae,” entitled “Wilson’s Subscription,” but the subject is obsolete, and the parody inferior. It commenced: Whigs! who have with Michael dined, Whigs! who have with Bennet whined, Hasten now to raise the wind, For a Knight’s dismissed. In the same year another skit at the Whig party appeared. The allusions it contains are to Lord Grey, who eventually passed the Reform Bill, Joseph Hume, the political economist and exposer of Parliamentary corruption; R. Carlile, the publisher of Tom Paine’s, and other advanced Radical works; Leigh Hunt, part proprietor of the Examiner, who had been imprisoned for calling the Prince Regent a “Fat Adonis of Fifty”; Henry Hunt, who had suffered a long imprisonment for attending a meeting at Manchester to agitate for the Reform of the House of Commons, in 1819; and Henry Brougham, afterwards Lord Chancellor, who was instrumental in eventually passing that measure. Whigs whom Fox and Petty led, Whigs who under Lord Grey fled, Welcome, though _three in a bed_, To the Treasury: Now’s the day, and now’s the hour―― Starve the _Tories_ out of power―― Cent. per cent. their wages lower, They cannot choose but flee. Who would be a grumbling knave, Though but half a loaf he have? Who prefer to toil and slave Without pay or fee? Who in spite of King and Laws, Faction’s darling weapon draws, Calls Hume’s and Bennet’s――Freedom’s cause, Let him follow _me_! Let Bennet boast his purity In politics and _pedigree_, Talk loud of his _nihil_-ity By long service won. Let Hume _dissect_ each place and fee, Each clerk, _although a brother he_, And prove that Cocker’s _Rule of Three_ Means only _Number One_. Whigs, with Carlile who condole, Whigs, with Hunt now cheek by jowl, Whigs, whom Tierney can’t control, And swears at horribly! Hume vows _he_ has made a _breach_, (_Not a pair_, as hirelings teach), Out of little Bennet’s reach, By _Financery_! Let Wilson rear his fallen crest, Let Log-Wood’s wisdom be confess’d, Leave Creevey’s virtues――_to be guess’d_, And Cam to form the line. Let Brougham be taken off the shelf, And make his fees from Michael’s pelf; Michael’s a _host_, sirs, in himself, So――let us in and dine! By our long and hopeless pains, By despair of office gains, We will draw our dearest veins, But we _will_ get in. Lay Lord Londonderry low, Placemen fell at every blow; Every placeman is our foe; Let us――_pray begin_. ―――― PARODY. _Written when part of the Duty was taken off Whiskey, in October_, 1823. Scots wha hae the duties paid; Scots wham whiskies aft made glad: Welcome, for the duty’s fled, And it shall be free! Now’s the time and now’s the hour; See the shades of evening lour; See the streams of toddy pour―― Pledge it three-times-three! Wha wad be a brandy slave? Wha wad shilpit claret lave? Wha of rum wad ever rave? When the whisky’s free? Wha for Scotia’s ancient drink, Will fill a bicker to the brink! Scotsmen wake or Scotsmen wink, Aquavitæ aye for me! By taxation’s woes and pains! By the smuggler’s ill-got gains! We shall raise our wildest strains, For it shall be free! Lay the big gin bottle low! In the fire the port wine throw! Let the tide of whiskey flow! Like liberty, aye free! ROBERT GILFILLAN. ―――― ROASTED SUCKING PIG. Cooks who’d roast a sucking-pig, Purchase one not over big; Coarse ones are not worth a fig So a young one buy. See that he is scalded well (That is done by those who sell), Therefore on that point to dwell, Were absurdity. Sage and bread, mix just enough, Salt and pepper _quantum suff._, And the Pig’s interior stuff, With the whole combined. To a fire that’s rather high, Lay it till completely dry; Then to every part apply Cloth, with butter lined. Dredge with flour o’er and o’er, Till the Pig will hold no more; Then do nothing else before ’Tis for serving fit―― Then scrape off the flour with care; Then a butter’d cloth prepare; Rub it well; then cut――not tear―― Off the head of it. Then take out and mix the brains With the gravy it contains; While it on the spit remains, Cut the Pig in two. Chop the sage, and chop the bread Fine as very finest shred; O’er it melted butter spread―― Stinginess won’t do. When it in the dish appears, Garnish with the jaws and ears; And when dinner-hour nears, Ready let it be. Who can offer such a dish May dispense with fowl and fish; And if he a guest should wish, LET HIM SEND FOR ME! ―――― “BUNN! WHA HAE.” Bunn! wha hae wi’ Wallace sped, Bunn! for whom Bruce oft has led, Bunn! whom Jenny Lind doth dread, Strike for victory! Now’s the day and now’s the hour, Don’t to Lumley’s programme cower; See proud Beale approach in power, Back’d by Royalty. Though _the_ [23]contract’s void, they say, Though your ballet go away, Though Baderna cannot stay, Don’t desponding get. By fair Thillon’s eyes and curls, By Carlotta Grisi’s trils, “Bondmen” and “Bohemian” girls, You may be happy yet. _The Man in the Moon_, Vol. I, ―――― A NOVEL TURN, _to an Auld Sang_. Jews――as every one has read―― Jews――as Charles Bruce lately said―― Know that you are born and bred The World’s Aristocracie, Now’s the day and now’s the hour, See auld Inglis looking sour; On you he abuse doth shower―― Inglis, Cant, and Mummerie! Wha would be a Jew-boy, Jew? Sell auld almanacks for new, When he’s one of――Bruce says true―― The World’s Aristocracie! Wha for Israel’s right, by law, In the house to sit, will draw―― Member stand, or member fa’―― Son of Judah, on wi’ me! By auld London’s streets and lanes, By great Rothschild’s cunning brains, We will spend our hard earn’d gains But he shall be an M.P. Lay our proud opponents low―― Agnews[24] fall in every foe―― Parliament’s in every blow―― Opposition’s all my eye! _The Puppet-Show_, April 15, 1848. ―――― LOUIS NAPOLEON’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. Guards! who at Smolensko fled―― No――I beg your pardon――bled! For my Uncle blood you’ve shed, Do the same for me. Now’s the day and now’s the hour, Heads to split and streets to scour; Strike for rank, promotion, power, Swag, and _eau de vie_. Who’s afraid a child to kill? Who respects a shopman’s till? Who would pay a tailor’s bill? Let him turn and flee. Who would burst a Goldsmith’s door, Shoot a dun, or sack a store? Let him arm, and go before―― That is, follow me! See the mob, to madness riled Up the barricades have piled; In among them, man and child, Unrelentingly. Shoot the men! there’s scarcely one In a dozen’s got a gun: Stop them, if they try to run, With Artillery. Shoot the boys! each one may grow Into――of the state――a foe (Meaning by the state, you know, My supremacy!) Shoot the girls and women old! _Those_ may bear us traitors bold―― _These_ may be inclined to scold, Our severity. Sweep the streets of all who may Rashly venture in the way, Warning for a future day Satisfactory. Then, when still’d is ev’ry voice, We, the nation’s darling choice, Calling on them to rejoice, Tell them, FRANCE IS FREE. WILLIAM E. AYTOUN. ―――― A BRITON’S ADDRESS TO HIS BROTHER COUNTRYMEN. Britons! at your country’s call, Freely live, or bravely fall; Honour’d death awaits us all, Death, or glorious victory. Now’s the day, and now’s the hour! See the front of battle lour: See approach proud Gallia’s power―― Gallia! chains and slavery! Who will be a traitor knave? Who can fill a coward’s grave? Who so base as be a slave? Traitor! coward! turn and flee. No――in this our sacred cause For Britannia’s King and Laws, Freedom’s sword each Freeman draws ’Gainst the insulting enemy. Who would fear, or who would flee? Fix’d is Britain’s destiny―― DEATH WITH GLORY WELCOME BE, IF NOT LIFE WITH LIBERTY. Briton! by thy wife’s warm tear, By thy spotless Daughter’s fear, By thy menac’d Altars swear THAT THIS ISLAND SHALL BE FREE. Lay the base Invaders low, Tyrants fall in every foe. Freedom hangs on every blow, Oh! to conquer or to die! Printed for J. HATCHARD, 190, Piccadilly, Price Three-pence per dozen. J. Hales, Old Boswell Court. No date. ―――― WING-KEE-FUM’S _Address to the Patriot’s Army_. A Parody, with the above title, was published in _Diogenes_ (a London comic journal), in September, 1853. It was in reference to the Revolution in China against the Tartar dynasty, when the rebels made it incumbent upon their adherents to shave off their pigtails, hitherto the badge of the conquered race. As the parody has little merit or historical interest, the following extracts will suffice:―― Cut away! No coward fears Shall restrain our warlike shears; We shout defiance in the ears Of all the Tartar race. Now the day is nobly won, Now the deed is nobly done; We hurl our pigtails, every one, In the Mantchoo’s face! Victory! our country’s free! The pigtail gone, no longer we By any alien race shall be Trampled on――kept down. The day’s our own――we’ll wear our hair Just as we please; and boldly swear The Mantchoo’s pigtail now shall ne’er Aspire to China’s crown. * * * * * ―――― TRAVELLERS, WHO’VE SO OFT BEEN BLED. Travellers, who’ve so oft been bled, When you’re poorly lodged and fed, At the Blue Boar, or King’s Head. Or the Victory; Ye who’ve paid a crown, or so, For a pint of Cape, or sloe, Join your powers to overthrow Such cool knavery! Down with every monstrous tax, Chambermaids, and lights of wax! Who will pay for these, I ax, Shillings two or three? With each breast the feeling chimes, Well to punish such foul crimes; To the castigating _Times_, Biffin, write with me! By the dinners, dear and bad, By the items, never had, Charged and paid for, yet too glad To escape so free,―― Deal mine host a deadly blow: Tell the boots that he may go To the gentleman below! Forward――what a spree! _Diogenes_, October 15, 1853. ―――― SONG, _by an “Old Shaver_.” Ye whose chins have often bled, Who, no doubt, each morn have said, “Why should blood of mine be shed To please Society?” Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; Though your close-shorn friends look sour, Defiance bid to _barberous_ power, Soap and slavery! Who’d be goose enough to shave When he might the trouble save? Who’d to custom be a slave, Lest folks call him, Guy? Who, from old-established raw, Fresh blood each day are wont to draw While scraping at your nether jaw, Fling your razors by! By the cuts upon my chin, By the smarting of my skin, By the rage it puts me in, No more shave for me! Let moustache and whisker grow, O’er your breast the long beard flow; Let the barefaced shavers know What a beard should be! _Diogenes_, February, 1854. ―――― THE CZAR’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. Serfs, wha hae wi’ Kut’soff bled! Serfs, like beasts of burden led, Though readier far to go to bed―― Come to glorious victory! Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; Let Europe taste despotic power; Make the base pretenders cower; Down with Right and Liberty! Who will be a traitor knave, Shun the knout our fathers gave, And freedom from the Saxon crave? Patriot rebel, turn and flee! Who would feast on tallow fat, Strike a blow at Kalafat! Cossacks, lick your lips at that; Valiant Finsmen, on wi’ me! By our nobles’ crafty gains, By our vassals’ cherish’d chains, We will give our dullest brains; But we won’t, we won’t be free! Lay the Gaul and Saxon low; Crush a Turk at every blow; Liberty’s our greatest foe! Forward, or you’ll all be d――――! _Diogenes_, 1854. ―――― THE LIBERAL PARTY. TO THE EDITOR OF THE ECHO. Sir,――If you think the enclosed worthy of appearing in the _Echo_ I shall be glad.――Yours respectfully, W. LOTHIAN. 31, Ferntower-road, Highbury, Jan. 31. ADDRESS TO THE LIBERAL ARMY. A’ wha hae wi’ Russell sped, A’ wham Gladstone’s often led; Welcome to a Tory bed Or to victory! Now’s the day and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour, See approach a would-be power―― Lord B. Disraeli! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Follow Disraeli. Wha, for Parliament and Law, Freedom’s sword will strongly draw; Freemen stand, while Tories fa’, Let him Liberal be! By Oppression’s woes and pains! We’ll not brook Imperial chains, For the blood in Liberal veins Boils at Disraeli! Lay all such usurpers low! Tories fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Down wi’ Disraeli! _The Echo_, February 1, 1879. ―――― “SCOTS WHA’ ARE.” Scots! wha are on oatmeal fed, Scots! wha sold your Royal Head To his foeman to behead―― For a mere baubee, Now’s the day and now’s the hour To throw your noble landlord ower, And bring your Willie into power, Scotsmen, I am he! Wha can be a traitor knave? Wha his chance of power to save Shame and infamy can brave? Scotsmen, I am he! Wha’s for Disestablishment? Wha can’t tell whatever’s meant By “Home Rule” and “Don’t pay rent,” Let him follow me. By the law of hypothec, Hung like chains around your neck, Scotsmen join with me to wreck The Tory Ministry. England to the wall may go, Russia jubilant may crow O’er her fall. Yet be it so, I avenged shall be. March, 1850. From “_They are Five_,” by W. E. G. (A small collection of Conservative parodies published by David Bogue, London, 1880). ―――― “SCOTT WHA HA’;” _Or Jumbo’s Address to his Keeper_. Scott wha ha’ your Jumbo fed, Scott wham Jumbo aft hath led, Soonest mended least that’s said Of your shabby victory! Wha dare ask how I behave? Here I’m caged up like a slave;―― Guess if I’d got loose, a shave They’d all had to turn and flee! What’s the good of British law? CHITTY only finds a flaw!―― Though I bang my head half raw, Their sole game is “On wi’ me!” There,――I call the whole thing low: E’en my trumpet I can’t blow; _Off!_ Here, let me gang below―― Steward! Let me do, or die! _Punch_, 1882. When the elephant Jumbo was sent from the Zoological Gardens, London, to the United States he was accompanied by his keeper, Scott, who was with him when he was killed by a locomotive engine. ―――― SALISBURY TO THE CONSERVATIVES. Friends, by Whig retrenchment bled, Friends, whom Beaconsfield has led, Rally round your Tory head, On to victory come! Now’s the day and now’s the hour, See the front of Gladstone lour, See laid low the Caucus’ power, Rads and Brummagem! Who would come at Bradlaugh’s call, Who would see Great Britain Small, Who would be a Radical, Let him turn and flee! Who “For God and Queen” will cry Eager he to do as I, Loyal live and loyal die, Let him follow me! By the woes seditions bring, We would rather have one King Than five hundred in the ring Brummagem would give. Lay the platform-spouters low! Liberty is ours we know! Change may tyrants bring and woe! Change we not and――live! From _A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor_. London, 1884. ―――― A CALL TO ARMS. Men by wise example led, From England’s greatest statesmen dead; Men whose fathers fought and bled For England’s liberty; Now’s the day and now’s the hour, See the front of battle lour, Scatter wide the Tory power, And let us still be free! Who would be a Jingo knave? Who would Tory banners wave? Let him ever be a slave To Tory tyranny. Who would justice, right and law, Free from Tories’ greedy maw, To the poll in thousands draw, And poll for liberty! Ere oppression’s woes and pains Load your sons with servile chains, Poll your full elect’ral gains To keep the people free; Lay the Tory braggarts low, A tyrant falls in every foe, Strike! for every Liberal blow Is dealt for liberty! From _Songs for Liberal Electors_, 1885. ――――:o:―――― JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent: But now your brow it beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow. John Anderson my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We’ve had wi ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we’ll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. ROBERT BURNS. The above is the version of this song as given in the Works of Burns, but _John Anderson, my jo_, existed as a song, under different forms, long before his time. In Percy’s _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_ it is traced back to the time of the Reformation, when many ridiculous and obscene songs were composed to be sung to the tunes of favorite hymns in the Latin Service, to ridicule the Roman Catholic faith. The explanation is important, and should be borne in mind, as accounting for the fact that many of the absurd and nonsensical old Scotch Songs, which Burns either entirely re-wrote, or remodelled, were wedded to really grand original music. The first, and only, verse fit to quote originally ran thus: “John Anderson, my jo, cum in as ye gae bye, And ye sail get a sheips heid, weel baken in a pye; Weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pot: John Anderson, my jo cum in, and ye’s get that,” In the first volume of a collection entitled, _Poetry Original and Selected_, printed by Brash & Reid, of Glasgow, this song is given as follows: JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED. _By Robert Burns._ John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean, To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e’en, Ye’ll blear out all your e’en, John, and why should you do so Gang sooner to your bed at e’en, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man; And you amang them a’, John, sae trig frae tap to toe, She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit, And ye need na think it strange, John, tho’ I ca’ ye trim and neat. Tho’ some folk say ye’re auld, John, I never think ye so, But I think ye’re aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, we’ve seen our bairns’ bairns, And yet, my dear John Anderson, I’m happy in your arms, And sae are ye in mine, John――I’m sure ye’ll ne’er say no, Tho’ the days are gane, that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie, To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up ’tween you and me, And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent. But now your head’s turned bald, John, your locks are like the snaw, Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we’ve past, And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last; But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne’er our foe, While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, we’ve had wi’ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we’ll go. And we’ll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. The stanza with which this song begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. With regard to the five additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably by Burns, every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them, ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given, to the world, as the production of Burns. ―――― JANE BARNABY. Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, I’m wearing wan, and old As herds at close of eve, Jane, Are summon’d to the fold, I soon to mine shall be, Jane, My close of life is near, And much I need our Shepherd’s care, Jane Barnaby, my dear. * * * * * Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, Thy tenderness is sweet, And grateful is this heart That soon will cease to beat. Thou wert its earliest love, Jane, Thou art its solace here, Thou’lt be its last remembrance. Jane Barnaby, my dear. * * * * * Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, Life’s flood is ebbing fast, A few more soft’ning sighs, Jane, The shoals will all be past. To bear my spirit hence, Jane, Death’s bark is hov’ring near; Adieu, adieu, a short adieu, Jane Barnaby, my dear. (Seven verses in all.) From _Attempts in Verse_, by John Jones, an old servant. (Edited by Robert Southey, Poet Laureate. 1831.) ―――― BY A GLASGOW BOOKMAKER. (DEDICATED TO G. ANDERSON, M.P.) GEORGE ANDERSON my GEO., GEORGE, before you did invent That Bill of yours, I made a book on every big event; But now my book is blank, GEORGE, and now my purse is low, So cusses on your Betting Bill, GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO. GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO., GEORGE, my clerk and I together, With lists in hand, would brave it out, in fine or rainy weather; Now we must take them down, GEORGE (for lists we must not show). And shout the prices out instead, GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO.! _Punch._ ―――― PARODY ON JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, When we were first acquent, A tighter hizzy never brush’d The dew frae aff the bent. But now ye’re turn’d as stiff’s a tree, And your pow’s as white’s the snow, There’s naething supple but your tongue My bonnie Meg, my jo. My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, I wonder what ye mean, Ye’re flyting everlastingly―― Frae morning light till e’en. Some folks say that ye’re failing Meg But I scarce can think it so, For ye flyte as weel as ere ye did, My bonny Meg, my jo. My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, When nature first began, She gaed every wife a yard o’ tongue To torture her gudeman. She’s been kind to you aboon the lave, An’ I can prove it so, For she’s gien you half a yard to boot, My bonny Meg, my jo. My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a devilish dust we’ve had Sin’ we met ane anither. Now we maun totter down, Meg, And cheek for chow we’ll go, And we’ll girn at ither at the fit, My bonnie Meg, my jo. ANONYMOUS. ―――― JEAN ANDERSON, MY JO. (_An Imitation._) When nature first began, Jean, To try her canny hand, It’s true she first made man, Jean, And gave him great command; But naething wad content him, Jean, Though king o’ a’ below, Till heaven in pity sent him, Jean, What maist he wish――a jo. Tho’ some may say I’m auld, Jean. And say the same o’ thee, Ne’er fret to hear it tauld, Jean, You still look young to me; And weel I mind the day, Jean, Your breast was white as snow, An waist sae jimp one might it span, Jean Anderson, my jo. Our bonnie bairns’ bairns, Jean, Wi’ rapture do I see, Come todlin’ to the fireside, Or sit upon my knee; If there is pleasure here, Jean, Or happiness below, This surely maun be likest it, Jean Anderson, my jo. Tho’ age has siller’d o’er my pow, Sin’ we were first acquent, An’ changed my glossy raven locks, It’s left us still content; And eld ne’er comes alane, Jean But oft brings many a wo. But we’ve nae cause for sic complaints, Jean Anderson, my jo. In innocence we’ve spent our days, An’ pleasant looks the past. Nae anxious thoughts alarm us, We’re cheerful to the last; Till death knock at our door, Jean, And warn us baith to go, Contented we will live and love, Jean Anderson, my jo. It’s now a lang lang time, Jean, Sin’ you and I begun, To sprachel up life’s hill, Jean, Our race is nearly run; We baith hae done our best, Jean Our sun is wearin low, Sae let us quietly sink to rest, Jean Anderson, my jo. ANONYMOUS. ―――― JOHN BULL AND JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN. [“I should like to see this Government drink to the dregs the cup of humiliation which they have filled for themselves.”―― _Birmingham Speech_, December 17, 1885.] Joe Chamberlain, my Jo――John Has still his word to say; Although you rate him low, John Was not born yesterday: Though acres three seem fair to men, And cows in fancy low, Yet Bulls will answer now and then, Jo Chamberlain, my Jo! There’s Radical and Radical; In that time-honoured throng Men stout and bold have battled all ’Gainst many a grievous wrong: Then think you never man on earth That sturdy name might owe, Till Birmingham brought you to birth, Jo Chamberlain, my Jo? So loud your trumpets clang and slang, That doubts John often feels, Bewildered by the “_sturm und drang_,” Which are his head and heels: For Liberal Captains staunch and true, Is he bestead so sorely, That he’s but Morley, Dilke, and you, And――you, and Dilke, and Morley? Is Forster but a poor pretence? Is Goschen but a traitor? Upon a Tory providence Is Hartington a waiter? Is Gladstone but the Tame Old Man Whose strings you deign to pull? You’ve much to do before you can Prove all these facts to Bull. Observe, good Joseph, if you’re wise, The Winkles you condemn Got pretty round majorities, To show my trust in them: Would you my loyal servant stay, (I’m stedfast, if I’m slow), A little modesty, I pray, Jo Chamberlain, my Jo. You’d have your foes “drain to the dregs” The cup you say they fill? If so, John Bull your pardon begs―― _He_ pays the liquor-bill. Ye Jacobins and Josephins, ’Tis time to think, you know, Less of yourselves and Outs and Ins, And more of me――come Jo! _Punch_, January 2, 1886. In _Punch_ of October 3, 1885, there was another parody commencing “Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,” being an appeal by a moderate Liberal to Mr. J. Chamberlain not to endanger the unity of the party at the coming general election. ――――:o:―――― FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT. Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a’ that! The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, Our toils obscure, and a’ that! The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that, What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin’ grey, and a’ that: Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man’s a man for a’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that. Their tinsel show, and a’ that, The honest man, though e’er sae poor; Is king o’ men for a’ that! You see yon birkie, ca’d a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that. Though hundreds worship at his word, He’s but a coof for a’ that; For a’ that, and a’ that, His riband, star, and a’ that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a’ that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke and a’ that; But an honest man’s aboon his might, Guid faith, he manna fa’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, Their dignities, and a’ that, The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth, Are higher ranks than a’ that! Then let us pray that come it may―― As come it will for a’ that―― That sense and worth o’er a’ the earth, May bear the gree, and a’ that, For a’ that, and a’ that, Its comin’ yet, for a’ that, That man to man, the warld o’er, Shall brothers be for a’ that! ROBERT BURNS. This Song was rendered into French, by Father Prout, and published in Bentley’s Miscellany:―― Quoi! Pauvre honnête, baisser la tête? Quoi! rougir de la sorte? Que l’âme basse s’éloigne et passe Nous――soyons gueux! n’importe travail obscur―― N’importe! Quand l’or est pur, n’importe! Qu’il ne soit point marqué au coin D’un noble rang――qu’importe? Quoiqu’on dût faire bien maigre chère Et vêtir pauvre vêtement; Aux sots leur soie, leur vin, leur joie; Ca fait il L’HOMME? eh, nullement Luxe et grandeur, qu’importe! Train et splendeur, qu’importe! Cœurs vils et creux, un noble gueux Vaut toute la cohorte! Voyez ce fat, un vain éclat L’entoure, et on l’encense, Mais après tout ce n’est qu’un fou,―― Un sot, quoiqu’il en pense; Terre et maison,――qu’il pense―― Titre et blazon,――qu’il pense―― Or et ducats, Non! ne font pas La vraie indépendence! Un roi peut faire Duc, dignitaire, Comte et marquis, journellement; Mais ce qu’on nomme un HONNETE HOMME, Le peut-il faire? eh, nullement! Tristes faveurs! Réellement; Pauvres honneurs! Réelement; Le fier maintien des gens de bien Leur manque essentiellement. Or faisons vœu, qu’à tous, sous peu, Arrive un jour de jugement;―― Amis, ce jour aura son tour, J’en prends, j’en prends, l’engagement. Espoir et encouragement, Aux pauvres gens soulagement; ’Lors sur la terre vivrons en frères, Et librement, et sagement! ―――― “FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT” “A man’s a man,” says Robert Burns, “For a’ that and a’ that,” But though the song be clear and strong, It lacks a note for a’ that. The lout who’d shirk his daily work, Yet claim his wage and a’ that, Or beg when he can earn his bread, Is not a man for a’ that. If all who dine on homely fare Were true and brave, and a’ that; And none whose garb is “hodden grey” Was fool and knave and a’ that; The vice and crime that shame our time, Would fade and fall and a’ that; And ploughmen be as good as kings, And churls as earls, for a’ that. You see yon brawny, blustering sot, Who swaggers, swears, and a’ that; And thinks, because his strong right arm Might fell an ox, and a’ that. That he’s as noble, man for man, As duke or lord and a’ that, He’s but a brute, beyond dispute, And _not_ a man for a’ that. A man may own a large estate, Have palace, park, and a’ that; And not for birth, but honest worth, Be thrice a man for a’ that; And Donald herding on the muir, Who beats his wife and a’ that, Be nothing but a rascal boor, Nor half a man for a’ that. It comes to this, dear Robert Burns, The truth is old and a’ that, The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the gowd for a’ that. And though you put the minted mark On copper, brass, and a’ that, The lie is gross, the cheat is plain, And will not pass, for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that ’Tis soul and heart, and a’ that, That makes the king a gentleman, And not his crown, and a’ that. And man with man, if rich or poor, The best is he, for a’ that, Who stands erect in self-respect, And acts the man for a’ that. ANONYMOUS. ―――― DEAR FREEDOM. TUNE.――_A Man’s a Man for a’ that._ Dear Freedom! sair they’ve lightlied thee, An’ ca’ed thee thief an’ a’ that, Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that. An’ a’ that an’ a’ that, Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that, Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that. We dare na meet, we dare na speak, We dare na sing nor a’ that: Our dearest rights we dare na seek―― We’ll see them swing for a’ that, &c. And then the de’il will be to pay, Wi’ tyrants, priests, an’ a’ that, Wi’ a’ their childish trumpery, Their fasts an’ feasts, and a’ that, &c. Whan peace an truth wi’ freedom dwell, Fraternity an’ a’ that, Nae mair we’ll need the fear o’ hell, Eternity an’ a’ that, &c. Their auld wives cants at length grown stale, (The light will soon do a’ that) Plain truth will e’en support hersel, But priestcraft mauna fa’ that, &c. Then cheerfully wi’ harmless mirth, We’ll spend our days an’ a’ that, And bless the hour that gae us birth, An’ Freedom praise for a’ that, &c. From _The Wreath of Freedom_, or _Patriots Song Book_. Newcastle, 1820. ―――― FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT. (_Supposed to be sung by a chorus of Jews, in the neighbourhood of Bevis Marks._) Success to honest usury, And flying kites and a’ that; Post obit bonds, and mortgages, With notes of hand a’ that; For a’ that and a’ that, We’ll drive a trade in a’ that, Receipts are but a penny stamp: A bills’ a bill for a’ that. When needy spendthrifts seek our dens, With embryo lord and a’ that, We tell them that we’re short of cash―― We’ll try a friend for a’ that, For a’ that and a’ that, We know the dodge for a’ that, And only ask our cent. per cent. For kindly doing a’ that. Our friend a mixture p’rhaps may have, Which we Madeira ca’ that; And daubs which bear a heavy price, They’re “_vary sheep_” for a’ that, For a’ that and a’ that, We’ll drive a trade in a’ that; Receipts may be a penny stamp, We’ll do our bills for a’ that. _Diogenes._ August, 1853. ―――― “A GIRL’S A GIRL FOR A’ THAT.” Is there a lady in all the land That boasts her rank and a’ that? With scornful eye we pass her by, And little care for a’ that; For nature’s charm shall bear the palm―― A girl’s a girl for a’ that. What though her neck with gems she deck, With folly’s gear and a’ that, And gaily ride in pomp and pride; We can dispense with a’ that. An honest heart acts no such part―― A girl’s a girl for a’ that. The nobly born may proudly scorn A lonely lass and a’ that; A pretty face has far more grace Than haughty looks and a’ that! A bonny maid needs no such aid―― A girl’s a girl for a’ that. Then let us trust that come it must, And sure it will for a’ that, When faith and love, all arts above, Shall reign supreme and a’ that, And every youth confess the truth―― A girl’s a girl for a’ that. N. E. R., Fence Houses. _Once a Week_, 1869. ―――― A CAD’S A CAD FOR A’ THAT. Is there a Jingo, proud and high, “Who cocks his nose and a’ that? The swaggering sumph, we pass him by―― We dare be just for a’ that! For a’ that, and a’ that, His sniggering scorn, and a’ that: The sneer is but the club-room’s stamp, The clay is Cad’s for a’ that! What though on civic fare he dine, Wear Court attire and a’ that; Give churls their turtle, clowns their wine, A Cad’s a Cad for a’ that: For a’ that and a’ that, Their patriot show and a’ that: The selfish Snob, or rich or poor, Is Cad at heart for a’ that! Ye see yon trickster, late clubbed Lord, Who dodges, dupes, and a’ that; Though thousands shout at each smart word, He’s charlatan for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, His riband, star, and a’ that; The man of just considerate mind, He smiles――or sighs――at a’ that! A Cad may boast of power of fight, Of patriot zeal, and a’ that; But trust in right’s above his flight; He has not pluck for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, Their blatant bounce and a’ that: Fair play, stern justice, steadfast calm, Show truer grit than all that! Then let us pray that come it may―― As come it will for a’ that―― That Jingo rant and Cad-dom’s cant May hush their row and a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, It’s coming yet for a’ that, When patriots true the wide world o’er Shall brothers be for a’ that! _Punch_, November 30, 1878. ―――― “OUR OLD NOBILITY.” Is there, for princely opulence, That hangs his head, and a’ that? We wish the coward better sense, And dare be rich for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, We’re noble Peers and a’ that. The commoner’s a common scamp; A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that! What though on plate we daily dine, Wear coronets and a’ that? Let knaves have beer instead of wine, We stick to hock and a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that,―― Their pewter pots and a’ that,―― For all our gold we never blush, A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that! Yon bragging pauper struts about, And rants and raves and a’ that; However loudly he may shout He’s but an ass for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that―― His People’s Rights and a’ that; In pride of birth and money’s worth A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that! _Fun_, January 22, 1879. ―――― It is among the things not generally known that Sir Arthur Guinness is a poet. He is said to have replied to the Prime-Minister’s offer of a Peerage in the following strain:―― Your kind intention I must damp, The game of rank’s not worth my candle; It is, sir, but the Guinness’ stamp; My honest pewter needs no handle. ―――― A SONG FOR MIDLOTHIAN. Is there, for double U. E. G., That curls his lip and a’ that? The Tory loon, we’ll let him be, And gae oor ways for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, Election-cries, and a’ that; The rank may be the guinea’s stamp, The man’s the man for a’ that. Ye see yon Dalkeith, ca’d a lord, Wha tries to speak, and a’ that; Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, He’s nae sae great for a’ that; For a’ that, and a’ that, His ancestry, and a’ that; The man o’ dauntless eloquence, He comes and wins for a’ that. A candidate may be a knight, A lord, an earl, and a’ that, But the ballot’s far aboon his might―― Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that! For a’ that, for a’that, Their faggot-votes, and a’ that, The pith o’ sense and pride o’ speech Do bigger things than a’ that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a’ that, That Gladstone’s worth o’er a’ the earth May bear the gree, and a’ that. For a’ that and a’that, It’s comin’ yet, for a’ that When man to man the kingdom o’er, Shall own his worth for a’ that. This Parody appeared in _Funny Folks_, which contained another, on the same original, on March 14, 1885, which is not now of sufficient interest to be included. ―――― A POLITICAL SONG. (_By a Man of no Party._) Is there for Whig and Tory men Who fumes and frets and a’ that, Who dips in gall his loveless pen, With wrath of man and a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their factions, feuds, and a’ that; In quiet nook we know to brook, A fruitful life for a’ that. What though we make no mighty din With place and power and a’ that; We wear, within a healthy skin, An honest heart for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, There’s outs and inns and a’ that; Let Whig and Tory bark and bite, The good cause wins for a’ that! You see yon loon who taks his stand On blood and pedigree here, And thinks the Lord God made the land For him and his degree here, For a’ that, and a’ that, Their pridefu’ pranks and a’ that; We turn the sod, and claim from God Stout labours due for a’ that. You see yon big-mouthed bawling boy, Of bright millennium dreaming here, From equal votes to ragged coats, And brainless men and women here; For a’ that, and a’ that, Their high-flown prate and a’ that; Clear heads, firm will, and subtle skill, Will rule the State for a’ that. You see yon keen-eyed lank-faced lad, Who pleads the workmen’s cause here, And knows to surgeon all things bad, With patent brand new laws here. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their Communistic brag here; The sharpest eye, the game to spy, Will make the biggest bag here. You see yon lean and lanky lad, Who flings his pulpit ban here, Save the elect of his own sect, On all the human clan here, For a’ that, and a’ that, Though priests may curse and ban here, The God who sits in heaven shall laugh At vain conceit of man here. You see yon chiel who wags his tongue And bobs his wig and a’ that. Though he can prove that right is wrong, He’s but a prig for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their shifty arts and a’ that; The pulse of right will beat with might, In human hearts for a’ that. Then let us pray, though for a day Wild seas may overwhelm here, That counsel mild may bear the sway, And wisdom hold the helm here! For a’ that and a’ that, Their party spite and a’ that; We’ll win the fight for truth and right, In God’s own time for a’ that. JOHN STUART BLACKIE, _Emeritus Prof. of Latin, Mar. Coll., Abdn._, 1841-52. From _Alma Mater_: Aberdeen University Magazine November 11, 1885. ――――:o:―――― JENNY’S A WAT, POOR BODY. Coming through the rye, poor body, Coming through the rye, She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, Coming through the rye, Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body, Jenny’s seldom dry; She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, Coming through the rye, Gin a body meet a body Coming through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry? Gin a body meet a body Coming through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body, Need the world ken. ROBERT BURNS. ―――― TAK CAULER WATER I. Gin a body meet a body, When he’s passin’ by, Need a body gar a body Drink that isna dry? Though ilka chap should tak his drap, Tak ne’er a drap wad I, ’Mang friens or faes for a’ my days, Tak cauler water I. Gin a body meet a body, Though to sell or buy, Need a body gar a body Drink that isna dry? Though yon big sea were barley-bree Tak ne’er a drap wad I; Abroad, at hame, its a’ the same, Tak cauler water I. Gin a body meet a body Whar folk wed or die, Need a body gar a body Drink that isna dry? Amang the gay, amang the wae, Tak ne’er a drap wad I; The dram an’ pray’r are queer-like fare―― Tak cauler water I. Gin a body meet a body. His lass jist by the by, Need a body gar a body Drink that isna dry? The lassie mine, I’d need nae wine, Ne’er a drap wad I, Though her sweet lip I’d aiblins sip, Tak cauler water I. WALNEERG. ―――― “MEETIN’ ON THE SLY.” Gin a nursey meet a bobby, Meet him on the sly, Gin a nursey leave a babby, Need a babby cry? Gin a bobby to a babby Acts in way unkind, Need the nursey stop that bobby―― Need that babby mind? Gin a nursey smack a babby With a strength extreme, Gin a nursey pinch a babby, Need that babby scream? Gin a bobby shake a babby, Need that babby yell? Gin a nursey kiss that bobby, Need that babby tell? _Judy_, December 10, 1879. ――――:o:―――― DUNCAN GRAY. Duncan Gray cam here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, On blythe Yule night when we were fu’, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t, Maggie coost her head fu’ high, Look’d asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh: Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. * * * * * Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, &c., Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, &c., Shall I like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may go to――France for me! Ha, ha, &c. * * * * * ROBERT BURNS. ―――― SAM SUMPH.[25] Sam Sumph cam’ here for Greek, Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t! Frae Dunnet Head he cam’ for Greek, Wi’ sair thirst for the Greeking o’t; Brains he had na unco much, His schooling was a crazy crutch, But like the crab he had a clutch, Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t! Latin Syntax vexed him sore, When he tried the Greeking o’t, For Cæsar stands at Homer’s door When folks try the Greeking o’t. _Quod_ and _ut_ he understood, At “speech direct” they called him good, But _qui_ with the subjunctive mood Was the crook in the lot at the Greeking o’t! One thing truth commands to tell, Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t! English he could hardly spell, But what’s that to the Greeking o’t? English fits the vulgar clan, The buying and the selling man, But for the learned the only plan Is a close grip at the Greeking o’t. How he wandered through the verb, It pains my tongue the speaking o’t, He said it was a bitter herb, When he tried the Greeking o’t. Wi’ mony a wrench and mony a screw, At last he warstled bravely through, All except a tense or two, When he tried the Greeking o’t! How he fared with ἣ and ἄν When he tried the Greeking o’t. Δὴ and γε, and all their clan, It’s weel worth the speaking o’t. These feckless dots of words, quo’ he. They are nae bigger than a flea, We’ll skip them ow’r, and let them be, They’ll nae be missed at the Greeking o’t! A’ the story for to tell, Were nae end to the speaking o’t, But this thing in the end befell, When he tried the Greeking o’t; Though his heart was free frae vice (Men are sometimes trapped like mice), They plucked him ance, they plucked him twice, When he tried the Greeking o’t! Sair cast doun was learned Sam At this end o’ the Greeking o’t; He could dae nae mair wi’ cram, At this stage o’ the Greeking o’t, But he was teugh as ony Scot, He was plucked, but yield would not, Sooner would he hang and rot, Than thus be balked at the Greeking o’t. At the door he made a din, Rap, rap, for the Greeking o’t! Is the Greek Professor in? Yes, yes, for the Greeking o’t! Sam his plea wi’ tears would win, He fleeched and grat his een quite blin’, To pluck him twice was just a sin, For a sma’ fault at the Greeking o’t! Professor was a kindly man, Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t! Felt for a’ the student clan That swat sair at the Greeking o’t, “Though your nae just in the van, My heart is wae your worth to ban Ye hae done the best ye can, So ye may past at the Greeking o’t!” Sam Sumph is now M.A., Ha, ha, for the Greeking o’t! He can preach and he can pray, That’s the fruit of the Greeking o’t. He can thunder loud and fell, An awfu’ power in him doth dwell, To ope and shut the gates of hell, That’s the prize o’ the Greeking o’t. Wait a year and ye will see, Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t! High upon the tap o’ the tree, Sam perch’d by the Greeking o’t! In the Kirk Assembly he Sits as big as big can be, Moderator Sam, D.D., That’s the crown o’ the Greeking o’t! JOHN STUART BLACKIE. From _Alma Mater_; Aberdeen University Magazine, December 9, 1885. ――――:o:―――― THE WHIGS OF AULD LANG SYNE. (_The Premier and the New Peers._) Should auld supporters be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld Whigs be remembered not By Whigs of auld lang syne? For auld lang syne my friends, For auld lang syne; We’ll gie ye baith a Peerage yet, For auld lang syne. We three hae tasted aft, at times, The sweets of office fine; And sighed for place for mony a day, Sin’ auld lang syne. For auld, &c. We three hae paddled, in our turn, The River down, to dine, And whiles without the whitebait gane, ’Sin auld lang syne. For auld, &c. Noo, gie’s a lift, my trusty friends, And here’s a lift o’ mine; And we’ll tak’ a right guid Johnnie-waught For auld lang syne. For auld lang, &c. And surely ye’ll be your staunch votes, As sure ye’re friends o’ mine, And we’ll tak’ a stoup o’Gladstone yet For auld lang syne. For auld, &c. _Punch_, December 30, 1865. ―――― SIR M. HICKS BEACH _singing_:―― Should auld acquaintance be forgot, As I’ve forgotten mine? Yes, certainly; for it is rot To talk o’ auld lang syne! For auld lang syne forsooth! For auld lang syne! I stabbed my auld frien’[26] in the back, For auld lang syne! He’d been a trusty frien’ to me, Right gude to me and mine; And as I drove the foul blow home, I cried “For auld lang syne! For auld lang syne, kind frien,’ For auld lang syne! Take that!” and so I laid him flat, “For auld lang syne!” [_He goes out._ _Truth_, _Christmas Number_, 1885. ――――:o:―――― GREEN GROW THE RASHES. A FRAGMENT. _Chorus._ Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O! There’s nought but care on every han’, In every hour that passes, O! What signifies the life o’ man, An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O! Green grow, &c. * * * * * Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears, Her noblest work she classes, O! Her ’prentice han’ she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O! Green grow, &c. ROBERT BURNS. ―――― LIFE IN MALVERN. We’ve dinners, sprees, concerts and glees, As yearly they come roun’ O! We’ve social teas, and grand soirées, For ever in the town, O! The town, O! the town, O! The lively, pleasant town, O! There’s healthy strife and active life, There’s spirit in the town, O! Though whiles we dream and whiles we scheme How we will yet sit down, O! And end our days in rural braes; We’ll never leave the town, O! The town, O! the town, O! The active, stirring town, O! Old Zimmerman would change his plan To live in Malvern town, O! From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_, by Dr. J. B. Oddfish, London, 1865. ―――― HEY FOR SOCIAL SCIENCE, O! A SONG FOR THE SOCIAL SCIENCE MEETING, AT GLASGOW, IN 1860. Air――_Green grow the rashes, O!_ A pleasant week I lately passed In Glasgow town,――no city, O! With men of state and merchants great, And sages wise or witty, O! CHORUS:――_Hey for social science, O! Hey for social science, O! When wisdom, wine, and wit combine, They make a good alliance, O!_ We meet to show that all below To ruin fast is tending, O! That laws and schools and prison rules Are much in need of mending, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ But though, no doubt, t’was well made out That things are old and wheezy, O! O cursed spite! to set them right Was not so very easy, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ Yet though the task may patience ask, We’re here convened to try it, O! To see if schools will root out fools, Or crime be cured by diet, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ The blood-red sun had scarce begun To shine out strong and hearty, O! When up we rose and donned our clo’es To join Bell’s breakfast-party, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ Delicious doles of meat and rolls Disposed to mirth and laughter, O! The inspiring tea brought out Macnee, And others followed after, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ When hunger’s rage we thus assuage, Succeeds the thirst for knowledge, O! Then, horse and foot, we take the _route_, And hurry to the college, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ Here in we press for some address That lasts two hours or longer, O! And if a word is seldom heard, The applause is all the stronger, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ The section meetings next we try, Some worse and others better, O! But if the days are somewhat dry, The nights will prove the wetter, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ That sense alone conspicious shone I can’t declare in conscience, O! But great’s the use to introduce A safety-valve for nonsense, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ A few who well their tale could tell Did ably fill the rostrums, O! While many a goose his clack let loose, And quacks proclaimed their nostrums, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ Just ere the welcome hour of six We gladly cut our cable, O! And in some port of refuge fix, Hard by a well spread table, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ While all things good in drink and food Our weary souls are cheering, O! The ills of life, before so rife, Seem quickly disappearing, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ Around us eyes and faces bright Our softened hearts are winning, O! Fair matrons in meridian light, And morning stars beginning, O! _Hey for social science, O!_ _The best of social science, O!_ _Is when its power, in hall or bower,_ _To Beauty we affiance, O!_ With ardour fired, by love inspired, I rise and give “The Ladies,” O! And they who shrink the toast to drink May hang and go to Hades, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ We talk, we quaff, we sing and laugh, Then part with tears and sighing, O! And when at last the week is past We’re dead with mirth――or dying, O! _Hey for social science, &c._ But I ordain that soon again, These pleasant hours repeating, O! We learn some more of social lore At such an evening meeting, O! _Hey for social science, O!_ _For genuine social science, O!_ _A summons here to recompear_ _Would find a quick compliance, O!_ This song was written by the late Charles Neaves, Advocate, who, on his elevation in 1854 to the Bench of the Supreme Court in Scotland, sat as Lord Neaves. He was an able judge, a genial, witty man, and a frequent contributor to Blackwood’s Magazine. Some of his best pieces were collected and published in a small volume, entitled “_Songs and Verses, by an Old Contributor to Maga_,” by W. Blackwood and Sons. Lord Neaves was over 77 years of age when he died in 1877. ――――:o:―――― HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER. The following Parody was written after thanksgiving services had been used in the churches on account of the victory at Tel-el-Kebir. HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER. (Supposed to be written by the Right Honourable W. E. G――dst――e, assisted by his G――ce the A――b――p of York.) O Thou, wha in the heav’ns dost dwell, Wha, since it pleased best thysel’, Sent Arabi, that chiel o’ hell, A’ for thy glory, To brew amaist as muckle ill As ony Tory. I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands left our shores to fight, Thou did’st uphaud Britannia’s right, And, by thy grace, We gied the Egyptian deils a fright Ower a’ the place. What was I or my ministry That we should sae exalted be? A glaikit mongrel company O’ bleth’rin’ b―――― Some three years syne――O L―――― forgie Our liein’ speeches. When frae my post aewhile I fell, I fum’d and sulk’d, and swore mysel’ Wad never mair wi’ office mell In Church or State, But wi’ the blust’ring outcasts dwell Outlaw’d by fate. Yet here I’m i’ the highest station, To prove the power o’ thy salvation, I’m noo the bulwark o’ the nation, Strong as a rock, Head maister o’ tergiversation ’Mang a’ the flock. O L――――, thou kens what zeal I bear, When Liberals fyke, and Tories swear, And speakin’ here, and scoffin’ there Wi’ great and sma’, O L―――― confound them everywhere, Ilk ane an a’. But yet, O L――――, confess I must, I’m fash’d wi’ mad, ambitious lust, Since me the doited fules still trust, Thro’ thick an’ thin; Sae I rave on, L――――, I’m but dust, Forgie my sin. Besides, I further maun allow, Wi’ Ireland, three times I trow,―― But L――――, my hands are always fu’, When I come near her, Or else thou kens thy servant true Wad safely steer her. Maybe thou lets this Irish thorn―― Murder and outrage, night and morn―― Beset thy servant in their turn, Cause he’s sae gifted; Obstruction’s han’ maun e’en be borne Until thou lift it. L――――, bless my followers in this place, Puir goavan coofs――a haverel race Led by the nose――but curse the face And blast the name O’ Northcote’s crew; bring them disgrace An’ public shame. L――――, mind Rab Salisbury’s deserts, He flouts and jeers, by fits and stairts, Yet has sae mony takin’ airts Wi’ grit an’ sma’, I fear least he the people’s hairts Should steal awa.’ And whan we chasten him therefore, Thou kens how he breeds sic a splore, As sets the country in a roar O’ boist’rous laughin’; Curse thou his ermine and his fur, His sneers an’ chaffin’. L――――, hear my earnest supplication Against that cause o’ my vexation, The House o’ Lords――bane o’ the nation―― Curse on their heeds; L――――, visit them wi’ swift damnation For their misdeeds. O! L―――― my G――――, that glib-tongued Cowen, Wi’ gall and bitterness o’erflowin’, And a’ the ruck sae forward growin’ Still mair an’ mair; Wha keep thy servants’ choler glowin’, An’ fill wi’ fear. L――――, since I am sae plaguit by ’em, Confound the loons wha’ do employ ’em, And in the day o’ vengeance try ’em, Heed not their prayer, But for thy servant’s sake destroy ’em For evermair. But, L――――, remember me and mine, Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine, For aye let me and H――b――t shine, Excell’d by nane, And a’ that glory shall be thine, Amen, amen, J. B. C., Northumberland, _The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle_, July 5, 1884. ―――― THE FISHER’S WELCOME. We twa ha’ fished the Kale sae clear, And streams o’ mossy Reed; We’ve tried the Wansbeck and the Wear, The Teviot and the Tweed; An’ we will try them ance again, When summer suns are fine; An’ we’ll throw the flies thegither yet, For the days o’ lang syne. ’Tis mony years sin’ first we sat On Coquet’s bonny braes, An’ mony a brither fisher’s gane, An’ clad in his last claithes. An’ we maun follow wi’ the lave, Grim death he heucks us a’; But we’ll hae anither fishing bout Afore we’re ta’en awa’. For we are hale and hearty baith, Tho’ frosty are our pows, We still can guide our fishing graith, And climb the dykes and knowes; We’ll mount our creels and grip our gads, An’ throw a sweeping line, An’ we’ll hae a splash amang the lads, For the days o’ lang syne. Tho’ Cheviot’s top be frosty still, He’s green below the knee, Sae don your plaid and tak’ your gad, An’ gae awa’ wi’ me. Come busk your flies, my auld Compeer, We’re fidgen a’ fu’ fain, We’ve fished the Coquet mony a year, And we’ll fish her ance again. An’ hameward when we toddle back, An’ nicht begins to fa, An’ ilka chiel maun hae his crack, We’ll crack aboon them a’. When jugs are toomed and coggens wet, I’ll lay my loof in thine; We’ve shown we’re gude at water yet, An’ we’re little warse at wine. We’ll crack how mony a creel we’ve filled, How mony a line we’ve flung, How many a ged and saumon killed, In days when we were young. We’ll gar the callants a’ look blue, An’ sing anither tune; They’re bleezing, aye, o’ what they’ll do, We’ll tell them what we’ve dune. This old Border ballad was written by Mr. Doubleday before 1855, and, whilst being professedly an imitation of Burns, has exquisite pathos and spirit of its own. ――――:o:―――― TO BURNS. And wha is he that syngs sae weel, And pens “Addresses to the Deil?” Wha gies the sang syke bonny turns? Daft Gowk! ye ken it’s sonsie Burns! His gabby tales I looe to hear, They please sae meikle, run sae clear; That ilka time, good traith, I read, I’se wiser baith i’ heart an’ head. I wad advise, when runkled care Begins to mak ye glow’r and stare, That ye wad furst turn ow’r his leaf, ’T’will mak ye sune forget ye’r grief! And should auld mokie sorrow freeten, His blythesome tale ye’r hearts will leeten; And sure I am, ye grief may banter, By looking ow’r his “Tam O’ Shanter.” And, while I breathe, whene’er I’se scant, O’ cheerful friends――and fynde a want Of something blythe to cure my glumps, And free me frae the doleful dumps, I’ll tak his beuk, and read awhile, Until he mak me wear a smile; And then, if I hae time to spare, I’ll learn his “Bonny Banks of Ayr!” From _The Bards of Britain_, contained in _The Remains of Joseph Blachet_, 1811, which work also contains imitations of Chatterton, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Young, Thompson, Shenstone, Collins, Gray, and Goldsmith. ―――― TAM O’SHANTER. In a recent number of _Notes and Queries_ (December 19, 1885), there was a long article, by Mr. Shirley Hibberd, on the origin of Burns’s masterpiece. It contains so much interesting information that readers of Burns will, no doubt, be pleased to have the following extracts:―― “In the year 1790, when Burns wrote _Tam o’Shanter_, stories of witches were current in Scotland, and there was yet a large survival of popular belief in their power and the diabolical source thereof. The poem bears evidence of a reality that has hitherto failed of recognition. The confession of certain Scotch witches at the assizes held at Paisley, February 15, 1678, must have been well known to Burns, for it was a theme of fireside conversation in his youth, and there were many living who remembered the whole of the circumstances. That confession establishes the reality of witchcraft. The confession is cited in _Demonologia_ (Bumpus, 1827). In a letter to Francis Grose, Burns gives three prose versions of the story. In one, a farmer who “had got courageously drunk in the smithy,” saw the “infernal junto” play their antics in Alloway Kirk, and managed to carry off the cauldron in which the hell-broth was prepared from the bodies of the unchristened children. In another, a farmer of Carrick witnessed the incantation, and, losing his self-command in admiring a buxom lass who danced with peculiar liveliness, shouted the dread words, “Weel luppen, Maggie, wi’ the short sark.” In this case the speed of the horse was insufficient for his complete escape, for at “the keystane o’ the brig” the witches despoiled the horse of its tail, and the stumpy steed became a witness of the truth of the farmer’s declaration. The third story is of no account in this connexion. In Robert Chambers’s _Life and Works of Burns_, iii. 152, we are told that “the country people of Ayrshire unmythicise the narration, and point to a real Tam and Souter Johnny,” the first being Douglas Graham, farmer, of Shanter; the other, his neighbour, John Davidson, noted for telling the “queerest stories.” That a drunken freak and the lies told to cover it explain the form of the poem is well enough. But we have in these “facts of the case” no explanation of the motive, no indication of the source of the inspiration, no key to the supernatural business. The moral is obvious for the _dénoûment_ proves the impotency of witches, and mocks the prevalent belief in their powers. These considerations, however, do not remove witches and witchcraft from the category of historical facts. An important commentary on the subject will be found in a volume entitled _Interesting Roman Antiquities recently discovered in Fife_, by Rev. Andrew Small (Edinburgh, 1823.) In this work it is stated that near the Castle Law, Abernethy, were twenty-two graves of witches, and near by is the hill on which they were burned. A Mr. Ross, laird of Invernethy in the reign of James VI., became, as justice of the peace, responsible for the apprehension of certain witches, and made the discovery that their names were entered in a book. He set his mind upon obtaining this written record, and, as one step thereto, he persuaded a women who was a member of the gang to permit him to accompany her to a meeting. The laird went to the meeting on a fast mare, and kept his seat while the orgies proceeded, and obtained possession of the book wherein to inscribe his name with his own blood. But instead of complying with the rule he put spurs to his steed and fled with the book, “while out the hellish legion sallied.” The witches swarmed upon him, but the laird kept his seat, and the mare kept her tail, and he outran them and got home, and quickly locked himself in and copied the names from the book. By this time the clamouring crowd had reached the house, and he dispersed them by throwing out the book, which they gladly seized and carried away. In introducing the story Mr. Small says: “If ever the poet Burns had been in this part of the country, I would have said he had taken the leading ideas or hints from it in his humorous and excellent poem.” ―――― THE POLITICAL TAM O’SHANTER. _Adapted, Fragmentarily, from Burns. Application――obvious._ No man can tether time or tide, And he who holds the reins must ride; And such a night WEG takes the road in As seldom rider was abroad in. With Boreas at his fullest blast, And Eurus whistling fierce and fast, There was a shindy never fellowed. Loud, deep, and long they raved and bellowed, That night o’ nights a Scot might say The Deil (of Hatfield) was to pay. Well mounted on his mare was WEG, (A stouter never lifted leg,) Through Irish-bog-like mud and mire, Wartonian wind, and Woodcock fire, Fought iron frame and shrewd head on it. Weg, holding fast his good Scots bonnet, Looked sharp around with prudent care, Lest bogies take him unaware, Or watchful foemen “wipe his eye” With that confounded thing, a “cry,” By this time he was cross the ford (Where he was very nearly floored), And passed the bog so dark and dank Where Snobdom’s “CHARLIE” sprawled and sank, And through the sand-pit, Egypt-dark, Where war-dogs seemed to lurk and bark; And the thorn-thicket, wild and wide, Where one had need be Argus-eyed. Before him doom appears at flood, Redoubling storm roars through the wood; Tongued lightnings flash from pole to pole, And vocal thunders fiercely roll. * * * * * But there was pluck in WEG’S shrewd noddle, He cared no more for threats than twaddle, His mare, though, was a bit astonished, Until, by hand and heel admonished, She ventured forward on the light, And eh! WEG saw a wondrous sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance, Egyptian whirls, and jigs from France; Drum-thumpings loud, and fife-like squeals, Put life and mettle in their heels. High on a seat, with flaming eyes, There sat old Nick in human guise; Mastiff-like, stern, black, grim and large; To set the measures was his charge. He pitched the pipes and made them skirl, Till the wild troop seemed all a-whirl. Coffins stood round like open presses, And showed dead Bills in foolscap dresses, And by some dark, prophetic sleight Each held a boding spectral light, By which our wary WEG was able To spy, spread out upon a table, Late-murdered measures; cord or knife Had robbed the innocents of life. A proud Peer’s garter one had strangled, And many more were maimed and mangled; In short the scene was simply awful, And WEG considered quite unlawful. * * * * * But WEG knew what was what right well, And one young witch there bore the bell. One late enlisted in the rout (At Woodstock known and thereabout) At many a measure she had shot, And many a plan had sent to pot; Made many a plucky wight feel queer, And shook e’en her own side with fear. Her “cutty sark” of true-blue yarn, Which, up to now, the witch had worn, In cut and fit was scant and strange, Some thought she hankered for a change, And that ’twas sad her youth’s bright riches Should e’er have graced a dance of witches. But here my muse must faster flutter, ’Tis scarce within her power to utter How RANNIE leapt, and twirled, and flung (A supple jade she was and young), And how WEG stood like one bewitched, How his eyes gleamed, how his mouth twitched. Even Satan glowered as though in pain, And puffed and blew with might and main, Till with one caper and another, No longer WEG his words could smother, But roars out “Well danced, Cutty Sark!” When in a moment all was dark; And scarce his mare and he had rallied When out the yelling legion sallied. As bees buzz round a sugar-tub, Or workmen round an opening “pub,” As M.P.’s rush to chase the grouse When Prorogation clears the House, So the mare runs, the witches follow, With many an eldritch shriek and hollow. Ah, WEG! ah, WEG! they’re nearing, nearing, Like hounds on trail of a red herring. Midlothian, WEG, awaits thy coming; They’ll think you’re lost, dear WEG, or humming, Now, ride thy very hardest, WEG! If the bridge key-stane fees her leg, Thy mare at them her tail may toss,―― That running stream they cannot cross. But ere the key-stone she could make, The deuce a tail had she to shake, For Nickie, far before the rest, Hard on that nag so nimble prest, And flew at WEG with hope to settle; But little knew he that mare’s mettle. One spring brought WEG off safe and hale, But left behind her own grey tail; For with NICK’S pull and the mare’s jump, WEG’S nag was left with ne’er a stump! _Punch_, August 16, 1884. ―――― “HERE’S A HEALTH.” Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa, And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, May never guid luck be their fa’! It’s guid to be merry and wise, It’s guid to be honest and true, It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause, And bide by the bonnets of blue. Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to them that’s awa, Here’s a health to Charlie, the chief o’ the clan, Although that his band be sae sma.’ Hurrah for the bonnets of blue Hurrah for the bonnets of blue It is guid to support Caledonia’s cause, And bide by the bonnets of blue. Here’s freedom to him that would read, Here’s freedom to him that would write, There’s nane ever feared that the truth should be heard, But they who the truth would indite. Hurrah for the bonnets of blue, Hurrah for the bonnets of blue, It’s guid to be wise, to be honest and true, And bide by the bonnets of blue. The above is a modern Jacobite song, author unknown. The original song from which it was taken is old, and was altered by Allan Ramsay and Burns, and several verses added. This version of it was very popular, and the following is a parody of it. ―――― “THE BROBDIGNAG BONNETS” OF BLUE.――A PARODY. (_Dedicated most respectfully to the Play-going Ladies of the Pit._) “If the following playful little parody should obtain a smile or two from some of the lady readers of the Mirror, the writer will feel amply rewarded. It will in some degree make up for the smiles of which he has been often deprived at the theatre, by having just before him three or four bonnets, three feet by two, or somewhere thereabout. He speaks feelingly, even if he has not written so.” Here’s health to the ladies at home Here’s health to the ladies awa’, And wha winna pledge it wi’ a’ their soul, May they ne’er be smiled on at a’. It’s guid to be pretty and fair, It’s guid to be smilin’ like you; It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,―― But na by broad bonnets of blue. Awa’ wi’ those bonnets of blue, Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue! It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,―― But nae by sic bonnets of blue. Here’s health to the bright eyes at hame, Here’s health to the bright eyes awa’, Here’s health to the beauties of every clime,―― But na to their bonnets at a’. I’ve a bracelet for her wha is wed, For the maiden a sweet _billet-doux_: Dear darlings, I’d give them whate’er they might ask,―― Except a broad bonnet of blue. Then hence wi’ those bonnets of blue, Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue! Oh bright eyes beam brighter from bonnets when sma’, Than hid by broad bonnets of blue. _The Mirror_, Vol. II., March 1828. See Dr. Charles Mackay’s “_Jacobite Songs and Ballads of Scotland_,” London and Glasgow, 1861. ――――:o:―――― WE TWA HAE DUNE A LITTLE BILL. AIR――“_Auld Lang Syne._” Should auld acceptance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should auld acceptance be forgot, All drawn, endorsed, and signed? Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend, Endorsed, drawn, and signed: And noo ’tis time to tak’ it up, The siller we must find! We twa hae dune a little bill, To raise the bonnie wind, And, tak’ the matter hoo we will, That document will bind. Endorsed, &c. And SHADRACH will nae time alloo, And therefore a’m inclined To think that we had better do Anither o’ the kind. Endorsed, &c. And surely ye’ll be your bit stamp, And I’ll nae be behind, And we’ll do a richt gude billie-wacht The needfu’ cash to find. Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend, Endorsed, drawn, and signed, We’ll do anither billie yet, Just the wherewitha’ to find! _Punch_, 1848. ―――― There was a paraphrase of “_Auld Lane Syne_” in the second volume of “The Comic Offering,” for 1832, and a long, but very dull, parody of “_Willie brewed a peck o’ Maut_” in _Punch_ of November 29, 1884, apropos of Bismarck and the Congo question. _Funny Folks_, for June 14, 1879, had a few lines on a young man who kissed a girl on Peckham Rye, and was fined for so doing. They ran thus:―― If a body meet a body Coming through the Rye, Can a body kiss a body? Yes――if no one’s nigh. Every bobby has his hobby, And some like to spy In a way distinctly “snobby,” At young lovers spry. In the same journal there was a poem (singularly appropriate at present), referring to the importation of American meat, which the butchers retailed as Scotch, in the same way that they now openly sell Australian, or New Zealand frozen mutton as English, and realise enormous and unfair profits by so doing. “Scots!” although in New York bred; “Scots,” whom Yankees well have fed, Welcome either live or dead Safely o’er the sea. Now we’re in the butcher’s power, Who, complaining every hour, Grudge to see us meat devour―― Cheap and savo-ree. Every one has need to save, Times are bad and prospects grave: Why should butchers play the knave, Or such tyrants be? Wha sells “Scot” fat, firm and braw, At a price that’s fair to a’, Butcher stand, or butcher fa’, He’s the man for me! _Funny Folks_, February 10, 1877. There was also a political Parody of “_For a’ That_” in _Funny Folks_ of March 14, 1885. ――――:o:―――― FOR A’ THAT AN A’ THAT. The following imitation of Burns’s song was written by Sir Walter Scott, in praise of the “Holy Alliance,” and was sung at the first meeting of the Pitt Club of Scotland; and published in the Scots Magazine for July, 1814. A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. 1814. Though right be aft put down by strength, As mony a day we saw that, The true and leilfu’ cause at length Shall bear the grie for a’ that. For a’ that, an a’ that, Guns, guillotines, and a’ that, The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right, Is Queen again for a’ that! We’ll twine her in a friendly knot With England’s Rose and a’ that; The Shamrock shall not be forgot, For Wellington made braw that. The Thistle, though her leaf be rude, Yet faith we’ll no misca’ that, She shelter’d in her solitude The Fleur-de-lis, for a’ that, The Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine (For Blucher’s sake, hurra that), The Spanish Olive, too, shall join, And bloom in peace for a’ that. Stout Russia’s Hemp, so surely twined Around our wreath we’ll draw that, And he that would the cord unbind, Shall have it for his gra-vat! Or, if to choke sae puir a sot, Your pity scorn to thaw that The Devil’s elbow be his lot, Where he may sit and claw that. In spite of slight, in spite of might, In spite of brags and a’ that, The lads that battled for the right Have won the day, and a’ that! There’s ae bit spot I had forgot, America they ca’ that! A coward plot her rats had got Their father’s flag to gnaw that: Now see it fly top-gallant high, Atlantic winds shall blaw that, And Yankee loon, beware your croun, There’s kames in hand to claw that! For on the land or on the sea, Where’er the breezes blaw that, The British Flag shall bear the grie, And win the day for a’ that. WALTER SCOTT. ―――― TO WOMEN OF THE PERIOD. Is it because she cannot rule, That curls her lip and a’ that? Such froward dame is but a fool, And shames her sex for a’ that! For a’ that and a’ that, Poor worldly fame and a’ that, She strives but for a gilded badge, Herself’s the gold for a’ that. What though we will not let her vote, “Electioneer” and a’ that; ’Tis best that man should wear the coat, The “breeches,” vest, and a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, She’s but a “rib” for a’ that! Man’s work requires a man complete, Not “half” a man for a’ that. She does not need Newmarket tribe, The walking-stick and a’ that; They but expose to jest and gibe The cause they plead and a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, Their wrongs and rights and a’ that, The woman who respects herself, Just looks and laughs at a’ that. “Master Henpeck,” give a lady place, At vestry boards and a’ that; But she with bonnie modest face, Will stay at home for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that. “Equality” and a’ that, She was not made to rush and race, And elbow man for a’ that. The hearth and home are woman’s sphere, Her proper place and a’ that; Where she may bear and nurse and rear, The “Babes of Grace” and a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, She shows most sense and a’ that. Who wins and wears the rank and name, Of mother, wife, and a’ that. ANONYMOUS. ――――:o:―――― THE BALLAD OF SIR T. TEA-LEAF. (_Being a humble Parallel to the Ballad of Sir John Barleycorn._) It was three gallant Chinamen, With long tail and pig eye, And they have sworn a solemn oath, Sir T. Tea-leaf must die. And they have ta’en and flung him down Upon an iron bed, And underneath, with cruel hand, Have heaped the ashes red. They’ve spread him out, and pressed him down, And turned him o’er and o’er, They’ve dried him up, until he curled, And writhed in suffering sore. In vain he twisted and he turned, In vain he cried for grace; They kept him so, and scorched him till He grew black in the face. But finding he was still alive, Their malice waxed more keen; They dosed him first with Prussian blue Till his poor face turned green. What sparks of life might still remain Determined to foredo, They gave him next a bitter draught Of gum and catechu. And on his death his name they changed, Lest men their crime should know, And when men asked, “Who’s that lies there?” They answered, “Young Pekoe.” Whereas his name and family, It really was Souchong, Related to the old Congous, A race both rough and strong. Lest men should recognise his dust, To dust when passed away, His calcined bones they kneaded up With lumps of China clay. Their poison’d victim then they wrapp’d In lead, with well-feign’d grief, And wrote the epitaph outside, “Here lies Sir T. Tea-leaf.” And though their grief was all a sham, The epitaph was true, For “here” it said, “a Tea-leaf lies.” And “lie” such Tea-leaves do. Now Tea-leaf’s name is in repute In lands beyond the sea, Where maiden ladies love him much, Under the name Green-tea. Ah! little dream these ancient maids Of Chinaman’s vile craft, Nor think, while chatting o’er their cups, There’s poison in the draught. And little know they of the fate Poor Tea-leaf had to dree, Or in their teapots they would weep Tears bitter as their tea; Till with the water of their woe E’en the first brew was spiled, And the presiding maid would be Obliged to draw it mild! Then to poor Tea-leaf drop a tear, By poison doomed to fall; And when there’s green-tea in the pot, May I not drink――that’s all. _Punch_, November 29, 1851. ――――:o:―――― MY HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS. My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe―― My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. * * * * * ―――― SONG FOR A SCOTCH DUKE. (_Equally applicable to a Yankee Dog in the Manger._) My harts in the Highlands shall have their hills clear, My harts in the Highlands no serf shall come near―― I’ll chase out the Gael to make room for the roe, My harts in the Highlands were ever his foe. _Punch_, November 8, 1856. ――――:o:―――― “O, WHISTLE, AND I WILL COME TO YOU.” [A youth was prosecuted at Newcastle Petty Sessions, County Limerick, in 1881, for having whistled at Mr. Hugh Murray Gunn, J.P., in a tone of derision.] O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad, O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad; Though your father and mother and all should go mad, O, whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad, But warily act, when you’re passing by me, And do not indulge in irreverent glee; Derisive deportment let nobody see, And pass as you were not a passing by me. O whistle, &c. But mind you are always respectful to me, Since rudeness with magistrates doesn’t agree; But far from the converse of naughty boys flee, For fear they should set you a-laughing at me. O whistle, &c. ―――― JOHN BARLEY-CORN, MY FOE. John Barley-Corn, my foe, John, The song I have to sing Is not in praise of you, John, E’en though you are a king. Your subjects they are legion, John, I find where’er I go; They wear your yoke upon their necks, John Barley-Corn, my foe. John Barley-Corn, my foe, John, By your despotic sway The people of our country, John, Are suffering to-day. You lay the lash upon their backs; Yet willingly they go And pay allegiance at the polls, John Barley-Corn, my foe. John Barley-Corn, my foe, John, You’ve broken many a heart, And caused the bitter tear, John, From many an eye to start. The widow and the fatherless From pleasant homes to go, And lead a life of sin and shame, John Barley-Corn, my foe. John Barley-Corn, my foe, John, May heaven speed the hour, When Temperance shall wear the crown And rum shall lose its power; When from the East unto the West The people all shall know Their greatest curse has been removed, John Barley-Corn, my foe! CHARLES F. ADAMS. ―――― TO THE DARING DUCKLING. (_By a Moderate Liberal_) Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir, You seemed but lately bent On preaching Liberal Unity, To our extreme content. But now you say you will not play, Unless your pace we go. How about Liberal Unity, now, Joe Chamberlain, my Joe? Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir, We’re facing roughish weather; Our only chance of victory, Joe, Seems pulling all together. Though slow the pace, why should you stop? Up hill we all would go, And we’ll meet together at the top, Joe Chamberlain, my Joe! _Punch_, October 3, 1885. ―――― JOE CHAMBERLAIN, OUR JOE. (_A Radical Parody._) [Mr. Chamberlain still adheres to the famous “three points” of the South London speech.] Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad, Conservatives may ban, But more and more the rest of us Support the “Grand Young Man.” _We_ do not grumble at your pace, We would not have you slow, So put your best leg foremost still, Joe Chamberlain, our Joe! Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad, Though Stanhopes rise and row you, You will not let their silly talk “Three-acres-and-a-cow” you. You wait not for the “jumping cat,” Your mind you seem to know, Which counts for something nowadays, Joe Chamberlain, our Joe. Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad, Your colours are attractive, And now you’ve nailed them to the mast, The Whigs will grow more active. Keep up the stride――press home those “points” That rankle in the foe, And leave the polls to do the rest, Joe Chamberlain, our Joe. _Funny Folks_, October 17, 1885. ――――:o:―――― Many short Parodies of Burns’s poems are scattered about in various old periodicals, but comparatively few are worthy of preservation, whilst some of the best, which have appeared in Scotch newspapers, are so broad in their dialect that few English readers would understand them. Trading on this ignorance of the northern dialect, some authors have composed poems, in imitation of Burns, which, whilst retaining some of the sound, contain none of the sense of the original. A good example of this style of Parody is to be found in Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac for 1846, it is entitled:―― AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. By Robert Burns. “_Lilt your Johnnie._” Wi’ patchit brose and ilka pen, Nae bairns to clad the gleesome ken; But chapmen billies, a’ gude men, And _Doon_ sae bonnie! Ne’er let the scornfu’ mutchit ben; But lilt your Johnnie! For whistle binkie’s unco’ biel, Wad haggis mak of ony chiel, To jaup in luggies like the deil, O’er loop or cronnie: You wadna croop to sic a weel; But lilt your Johnnie! Sae let the pawkie carlin scraw, And hoolie, wi’ outlandish craw, Kail weedies frae the ingle draw As blyth as honie; Amang the thummart dawlit wa’ To lilt your Johnnie. A still funnier parody was published in _Punch_, also said to be an unpublished poem by Burns. It consisted of three verses, but the first is quite sufficient to show the nature of the joke: JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND. (_Communicated by the Edinburgh Society for promoting civilization in England._) O Mickle yeuks the keckle doup, An’ a’ unsicker girns the graith, For wae and wae! the crowdies loup O’er jouk an’ hallan, braw an’ baith. Where ance the coggie hirpled fair, And blithesome poortith toomed the loof, There’s nae a burnie giglet rare But blaws in ilka jinking coof. * * * * * Some Parodies of National Songs have appeared in _Judy_, amongst them was the following:―― SCOTCH NATIONAL SONG. AIR――“_The Breeks o’ Balquidder._” Greet na mair, ma sonsie lassie, Greet na mair, ma pawkie chiel, Mither’s yout the wee bit hallan, An’ ye ken I loe ye weel! Gin your tocher’s guid, ma hinnie, What for gar the tear-draps fa’, Bring it ben, and pin the door, lass, An’ your jo will tak’ it a’! There’s a hantle Kebbuck waitin’, Bonnie farls, and haggis richt, Pit yere haffits gaily frae ye, Brawly a’ will gang the nicht! Dinna croon, the braxy’s ready, Tane a tither’s i’ the brae, Daddy’s fou ahint the bothy, What suld gar ye fashin’ sae? Loup an’ leuch, an’ skirl, ma lassie, Blithely toone the collops ben, Heed na lang thripplin――kame, luve, Fear na mair the tappit-hen; Till the kirk we’ll gang the morrow, Whiles the pipes sae gaily blaw, Syne we’ll crack o’ auld Balquidder, Soughing ’neath the simmer snaw! _Judy._ Sept. 10, 1884. ――――:o:―――― A HISTORY OF THE BURNs’ FESTIVAL; or, Centenary Celebration of the Birth of Robert Burns, held at the Crystal Palace, on January 25, 1859, On November 9, 1858, the Directors of the Crystal Palace Company published an advertisement, stating their intention of celebrating the Centenary of the birth of Robert Burns, by a grand festival at the Crystal Palace. At the same time, they offered a prize of Fifty Guineas, under certain conditions, for the best poem celebrating the occasion, to be recited during the Festival, while they solicited the loan of relics and memorials of the Poet, which were to be exhibited on the occasion. An ample response was made. On the 2nd of January, 621 poems were collected, of which 9 came from America. Shortly before this, the Directors had solicited Monckton Milnes, Esq., M.P., Tom Taylor, Esq., and Theodore Martin, Esq., to act as judges to award the prize; and these gentlemen having kindly consented, commenced their examination. In order to carry out the competition with the utmost fairness, it was decided that the names of the authors should not be communicated, but that two mottoes should be inscribed, for identification, on each poem, and that the name of the author should be forwarded in a sealed envelope, which should bear corresponding mottoes to the poem which it accompanied. The Judges reported in favor of a poem bearing the mottoes “_Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled_,” and “_A man’s a’ man for a’ that_.” On the day of the Festival there was a large attendance at the Crystal Palace, many interesting relics and several portraits of Burns were exhibited, and there was a concert of Scotch music, including many of Burns’s own songs. The late Mr. S. Phelps opened the sealed envelope, and announced that the Prize poem was composed by a lady, named “Isa Craig.” He then recited the ode which, it must be confessed, was a somewhat disappointing work, with little that was either distinctively Scotch, or reminiscent of Burns in its composition. The poem was printed in full in the Crystal Palace programme for the day, also in the _Times_, of January 26, 1859. That the Prize poem was unworthy of the occasion was pretty generally admitted, the _Times_ sneered at the whole concern, principally because it was used by the C. P. Company as an attraction to the Palace, though why that should be a rebuke to managers of public entertainments is not very clear. And, of course, as in the case of all advertised poetical competitions, a collection of burlesque poems was published about the same time as the Festival, by Routledge, Warne and Routledge. This little volume has since been assigned to the pen of Samuel Lover, and it contains a few pieces of really smart, clever burlesque, but the general effect is not very inspiriting. It is entitled: RIVAL RHYMES, In honour of Burns; With curious illustrative matter. Collected and edited by BEN TROVATO “_If Maevius scribble in Apollo’s spight, There are who judge still worse than he can write._” POPE. _Contents._ The Bard of Ayr. By Father Prout, A Remonstrance to the Directors of the Crystal Palace. By a Proverbial Philosopher. A Spirit Lay from Hades. By Thomas Campbell. A Voice from the Far West. By H. W. Longfellow. A Few Words on Poets, &c. By the Ghost of Thomas Hood. Ode by an Ardent Admirer of Milton. Letter of Fergus McFash, enclosing an unpublished Poem, supposed to be by Robert Burns. The Penny-a-Liner’s Hope. By Barry Cornwall. The Poet’s Birth; a Mystery. By the Poet Laureate. Groves of Sydenham. By an Enraged Bard. Battle of the Lake Glenlivit. By Lord Macaulay. Author of “The Lays of Ancient Rum.” Lay of the Rapt Spirit. By the Ghost of Alexander Pope. Letter to the Directors of the Crystal Palace. By W. M. Thackeray (prose). APPENDIX. Lord Brougham on Burns and the Language of Scotland. (At the Burns’ Centenary Festival, held in the Music Hall in Edinburgh, when Lord Ardmillan presided, a letter from Lord Brougham was read by the Chairman. It was dated from Cannes, January 17, 1859.) Several of the poems in this little volume have already been quoted in “_Parodies_.” It is only necessary here to give the lines, supposed to be from an early and unfinished work by Robert Burns. These lines are introduced with a statement that they were found in an old escritoire, and are worthy of being preserved with the other relics of Robert Burns. Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie,[27] Couthie dearie, Paukie dearie, Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie, And lasses buskit gaily, O! Waukrife a’ the nicht I lay, Whigmaleerie’s toom to spae, Laith and lang, till blink o’ day Wad gie to me my Mallie, O! Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie, Couthie dearie, Paukie dearie, Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie, We’re aiblin’s baith expeckit, O! The hushion’d cowt afore the yett, Wi’ chaup o’ cloot, and crankous fret, Seems bletherin “Lassie, bide ye yet? Mess-John maun’t be negleckit, O!” * * * * * Scotchmen are ever ready to do honour to the memory of Burns, and enthusiastically celebrate his birthday every year. Last year the Aberdeen Burns Club had a dinner at the Imperial Hotel, after which, one of the members, Sir William Cadenhead read some poems on Burns, purporting to have been composed for the occasion by Lord Tennyson, Mr. Gladstone, and Mr. Oscar Wilde. Unfortunately these Parodies are too long to reproduce here, but they may be found in _The Aberdeen Daily Free Press_, of January 26, 1885. [Illustration] Sir Walter Scott, _Born August_ 15, 1771. _Died September_ 21, 1832. [Illustration: T]he immense popularity of the writings of Sir Walter Scott is attested by the number of Parodies and imitations both in verse and in prose, they have given rise to. Thackeray’s well known burlesque continuation of _Ivanhoe_ entitled “_Rebecca and Rowena_” will be fully described, with several others of a similar nature, when dealing with prose parodies. Several complete parodies of Scott’s poems exist, such as _Jokeby_, _The Lay of the Scotch Fiddle_, and _Marmion Travestied_, these are long, and rather tedious, the topics touched upon being now somewhat out of date. But there are many excellent parodies of his shorter poems, and of detached passages from _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_, etc. Undoubtedly the finest imitation of Sir Walter Scott’s style is that contained in _Rejected Addresses_, the celebrated little volume by the Brothers James and Horace Smith. Horace Smith was the author of this imitation of Scott, a poem which was especially singled out for praise by the reviewers. _The Quarterly Review_ said “from the parody of Walter Scott we know not what to select――it is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as amusing specimens of the _misapplication_ of the style and metre of Mr. Scott’s admirable romances;” whilst _The Edinburgh Review_ spoke of the poem as being admirably executed: “The burning is described with the mighty minstrel’s love of localities.” The authors of _Rejected Addresses_, in their very interesting preface to the eighteenth edition, state that not one of those whom they had parodied or burlesqued ever betrayed the least soreness or refused to join in the laugh that they had occasioned:―― “From Sir Walter Scott, whose transcendent talents were only to be equalled by his virtues and his amiability, we received favours and notice, which it will be difficult to forget, because we had not the smallest claim upon his kindness. ‘I certainly must have written this myself!’ said that fine-tempered man to one of the authors, pointing to the description of the Fire, ‘although I forget upon what occasion.’” A TALE OF DRURY LANE. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT. “Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating, as near as he could, their very phrase.”――DON QUIXOTE. (_To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, in a suit of the Black Prince’s armour, borrowed from the Tower._) Survey this shield, all bossy bright―― These cuisses twain behold! Look on my form in armour dight Of steel inlaid with gold: My knees are stiff in iron buckles, Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles. These once belong’d to sable prince, Who never did in battle wince; With valour tart as pungent quince, He slew the vaunting Gaul. Rest there awhile, my bearded lance, While from green curtain I advance To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,[28] And tell the town what sad mischance Did Drury Lane befall. THE NIGHT. On fair Augusta’s[29] towers and trees Flitted the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it past, Which from the moon-tipp’d plumage cast A spangled light, like dancing spray, Then re-assumed its still array; When, as night’s lamp unclouded hung, And down its full effulgence flung, It shed such soft and balmy power That cot and castle, hall and bower, And spire and dome, and turret height, Appeared to slumber in the light. From Henry’s chapel, Rufus’ hall, To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul; From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, To Redriffe, Shadwell, Horsleydown, No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, But all in deepest sleep reposed. They might have thought, who gazed around Amid a silence so profound, It made the senses thrill, That twas no place inhabited, But some vast city of the dead―― All was so hush’d and still. THE BURNING. As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom, Had slept in everlasting gloom, Started with terror and surprise When light first flash’d upon her eyes―― So London’s sons in nightcap woke, In bed-gown woke her dames; For shouts were heard ’mid fire and smoke, And twice ten hundred voices spoke―― “The playhouse is in flames!” And, lo! where Catherine Street extends, A fiery tail its lustre lends To every window-pane; Blushes each spout in Martlet Court, And Barbican, moth-eaten fort, And Covent Garden kennels sport, A bright ensanguined drain; Meux’s new Brewhouse shows the light, Rowland Hill’s Chapel, and the height Where Patent Shot they sell; The Tennis Court, so fair and tall, Partakes the ray, with Surgeons’ Hall, The Ticket-Porters’ House of Call, Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,[30] Wright’s shrimp and oyster shop withal, And Richardson’s Hotel. Nor these alone, but far and wide, Across red Thames’s gleaming tide, To distant fields, the blaze was borne, And daisy white and hoary thorn In borrow’d lustre seem’d to sham The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am. To those who on the hills around Beheld the flames from Drury’s mound. As from a lofty altar rise, It seem’d that nations did conspire To offer to the god of fire Some vast stupendous sacrifice! The summon’d firemen woke at call, And hied them to their stations all: Starting from short and broken snooze, Each sought his pond’rous hobnail’d shoes, But first his worsted hosen plied, Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed, His nether bulk embraced; Then jacket thick, of red or blue, Whose massy shoulder gave to view The badge of each respective crew, In tin or copper traced. The engines thunder’d through the street, Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, And torches glared, and clattering feet Along the pavement paced. And one, the leader of the band, From Charing Cross along the Strand, Like stag by beagles hunted hard, Ran till he stopped at Vin’gar Yard. The burning badge his shoulder bore, The belt and oil-skin hat he wore, The cane he had, his men to bang, Show’d foreman of the British gang―― His name was Higginbottom. Now ’Tis meet that I should tell you how The others came in view; The Hand-in-Hand the race begun, Then came the Phœnix and the Sun, Th’ Exchange, where old insurers run, The Eagle, where the new; With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole, Robins from Hockley in the Hole, Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl, Crump from St. Giles’s Pound: Whitford and Mitford join’d the train, Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, And Clutterbuck who got a sprain Before the plug was found. Hobson and Jobson did not sleep, But ah! no trophy could they reap, For both were in the Donjon Keep Of Bridewell’s gloomy mound! E’en Higginbottom now was posed, For sadder scene was ne’er disclosed; Without, within, in hideous show, Devouring flames resistless glow, And blazing rafters downward go, And never halloo “Heads below!” Nor notice give at all. The firemen terrified are slow To bid the pumping torrent flow, For fear the roof should fall. Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof! Witford, keep near the walls! Huggins, regard your own behoof, For, lo! the blazing rocking roof Down, down, in thunder falls! An awful pause succeeds the stroke, And o’er the ruins volumed smoke, Rolling around its pitchy shroud, Conceal’d them from th’ astonish’d crowd. At length the mist awhile was clear’d, When, lo! amid the wreck uprear’d, Gradual a moving head appear’d, And Eagle firemen knew ’Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered, The foreman of their crew, Loud shouted all in signs of woe, “A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!” And pour’d the hissing tide: Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggled all in vain, For, rallying but to fall again, He totter’d, sunk, and died! Did none attempt, before he fell, To succour one they loved so well? Yes, Higginbottom did aspire (His fireman’s soul was all on fire), His brother chief to save; But ah! his reckless generous ire Served but to share his grave! ’Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before. But sulphry stench and boiling drench Destroying sight o’erwhelm’d him quite. He sunk to rise no more. Still o’er his head, while Fate he braved, His whizzing water-pipe he waved; “Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps, “You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps, “Why are you in such doleful dumps? “A fireman; and afraid of bumps!―― “What are they fear’d on? fools! ’od rot ’em!” Were the last words of Higginbottom.[31] THE REVIVAL. Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, And toil rebuilds what fires consume! Eat we and drink we, be our ditty, “Joy to the managing committee!” Eat we and drink we, join to rum Roast beef and pudding of the plum; Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, For this is Drury’s gay day. Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, Crisp parliament[32] with lollypops, And fingers of the Lady. Didst mark, how toil’d the busy train, From morn to eve, till Drury Lane Leap’d like a roebuck from the plain? Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again, And nimble workmen trod; To realise bold Wyatt’s plan Rush’d many a howling Irishman; Loud clatter’d many a porter-can, And many a ragamuffin clan With trowel and with hod. Drury revives! her rounded pate Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate; She “wings the midway air” elate, As magpie, crow, or chough; White paint her modish visage smears, Yellow and pointed are her ears, No pendant portico appears Dangling beneath, for Whitbread’s shears[33] Have cut the bauble off. Yes, she exalts her stately head; And, but that solid bulk outspread, Opposed you on your onward tread, And posts and pillars warranted That all was true that Wyatt said, You might have deem’d her walls so thick Were not composed of stone or brick, But all a phantom, all a trick, Of brain disturb’d and fancy sick, So high she soars, so vast, so quick! ――――:o:―――― BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER. [Scott introduces the following song in Chapter XXV. of _The Monastery_, with the remark that it was sung to the ancient air of “_Blue Bonnets over the Border_.”] March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the blue bonnets are bound for the border. Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story, Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory! Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come from the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, War steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms then, and march in good order, England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the border! WALTER SCOTT. ―――― BLUE STOCKINGS OVER THE BORDER. Read, quickly read, for your honours, ye Oxford men! Why don’t you read Greek and Latin in order? Pass o’er the Ass’s Bridge, sons of the Cambridge Fen! All the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border! Their banner is flying, They’re “victory” crying, They’ll solve every problem in Euclid before ye―― Come from the rowing match, Glee club, and merry catch, Read for a class and the old College glory! Ye Dons and Professors, arise from your slumbers, Open your books,――set your studies in order―― The danger is pressing in spite of your numbers, For the Blue Stockings are crossing the Border. Descend from your Tilburies, Gents of the long robe, Read briefs――for their steps to the Woolsack they bend: The depths of your science, ye Doctors, they’ll soon probe, With old Esculapius the _Blues_ would contend! Their clack is resounding, With hard words abounding, Steam guns their weapons, which cause great disorder. By Gas they’re enlightened―― By nothing they’re frightened, The dauntless Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border. Read for your honors, then, Oxford and Cambridge men! Look, lawyers, look, are your Green Bags in order? Oh! Sons of Galen, you will not escape the ken Of the Blue Stockings who pass’d o’er the Border! Look well to your counsels, ye sage Politicians―― They’ll change all your projects and plans for the State; Examine your arguments, Metaphysicians―― In every department the Blues are first-rate. Famed Craniologists! Learned Phrenologists! You’ll find, though each bump in their skulls is in order; _The organ of Prying_ All others defying, Stands first in the Blues who are crossing the Border. Strain every nerve, then, all ye who have place and sway, From Wellington down to the City Recorder. Ye’ll be found bunglers, in office unfit to stay, If the Blue Stockings come over the Border. Stand to your posts, ye adepts in Astronomy, A comet they’ll see whilst your glass ye arrange―― Find out some fault in Dame Nature’s economy―― Spots in the moon, which betoken a change. Quake, ye Geologists! Tremble, Conchologists! Put Retorts and Crucibles, Chemists, in order! Beware, Antiquarians, They’re Disciplinarians, These _talented_ Blues who are passing the Border! Put on your spectacles, star-gazing gentlemen―― Steam-boat inventors, avoid all disorder―― If there’s a blunder committed by Englishmen, Each Blue will see it who passes the Border! ’Tis said they’ve discovered perpetual motion, Attached to _their tongues_, ’twill be henceforth their own; And this job completed, some folks have a notion They’re all seeking now the Philosopher’s Stone. An enemy slanders Their ablest commanders, Their heads vacuum engines he calls (’tis a joke), Says Watts’ Steamer teaches The plan of their speeches, Beginning in noise, and concluding in smoke, Believe not, my countrymen, this foolish story―― Come when they will, let them find you in order―― Delay not, I pray, till each Blue, crown’d with glory, By paper kites drawn shall pass o’er the Border. The above appeared in _The Mirror_, vol. II, 1828, p. 239. About that period “intellectual females” were in fashion as well as the Brobdignagian bonnets, mentioned in the parodies on Burns. The origin of “Blue Stocking” is given in Boswell’s Life of Johnson, edition 1835, vol. 8, p. 85, “About this time (1781) it was much the fashion for several ladies to have evening assemblies where the fair sex might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. These societies were denominated _Blue Stocking Clubs_; the origin of which title being little known, it may be worth while to relate it. One of the most eminent members of those societies, when they first commenced, was Mr. Stillingfleet, whose dress was remarkably grave, and in particular it was observed that he wore blue stockings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that his absence was felt as so great a loss, that it used to be said, ‘We can do nothing without the _blue stockings_;’ and thus by degrees the title was established. Miss Hannah More has admirably described a _Blue Stocking Club_ in her ‘_Bas Bleu_,’ a poem in which many of the persons who were most conspicuous there are mentioned.” ―――― WRITE, WRITE, TOURIST AND TRAVELLER. Write, write, tourist and traveller, Fill up your pages and write in good order; Write, write, scribbler and driveller, Why leave such margins?――come nearer the border. Many a laurel dead flutters around your head, Many a _tome_ is your _memento mori_! Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and pen, Write for snuff-shops, if you write not for glory. Come from your rooms where the farthing wick’s burning, Come with your tales full of gladness or woe; Come from your small-beer to vinegar turning, Come where the Port and the Burgundy flow! Fame’s trump is sounding, topics abounding, Leave, then, each scribb’ler, your high attic story; Critics shall many a day speak of your book, and say, “He wrote for the snuff-shop, he wrote not for glory!” Write, write, tourist and traveller, Fill up your pages and write in good order; Write, write, scribb’ler and driveller, Why leave such margins?――come nearer the border. ROBERT GILFILLAN, 1828. ―――― READ, READ! Read, read, Woodstock and Waverley, Turn every page and read forward in order; Read, read, every tale cleverly, All the old novels are over the border! Many a book lies dead, dusty, and never read, Many a chiel wants a thread to his story; While Walter, that king o’ men, just with his single pen, Like a giant, well _grogged_, marches on in his glory! Come from your tales full of murders amazing, Come from romaunts gone to bed long ago; Come from the scribb’lers whom pye-men are praising, Come to Redgauntlet and brave Ivanhoe! Scott’s fame is sounding, readers abounding, May laurels long circle his locks thin and hoary! Scotland shall many a day speak of her bard, and say, “He lived for his country, and wrote for her glory!” ROBERT GILFILLAN, 1831. ―――― TAX, TAX! Tax, tax Income and Property, Why the deuce don’t ye tax both in fair order? Tax, tax, Genius and Industry―― Aye; but not so as on plunder to border! Many, by hand or head Earning precarious bread, Suddenly ruin’d’s an often-told story. Do, JOHNNY RUSSELL, then, Justice to working men; If you refuse, we must call in a Tory! _Punch_, May 17, 1851. ―――― VALOUR UNDER DIFFICULTIES. March, march, pipe-clayed and belted in, That is to say you must march in good order; March, march, broiling sun melted in, Stocks all so tight that on choking you border. Martinet’s anger dread If you can turn your head, Martinet, stiff as the knights of old story, Shave and make ready then, Half-strangled Englishmen! March on, as well as you’re able, to glory! _Punch._ ―――― LOBSTER SALAD. Take, take, Lobsters and lettuces; Mind that they send you the fish that you order; Take, take, a decent-sized bowl, One that’s sufficiently deep in the border. Cut into many a slice All of the fish that’s nice, Place in the bowl with due neatness and order; Then hard-boiled eggs you may Add in a neat array All round the bowl, just by way of a border. Take from the cellar of salt a proportion; Take from the castor both pepper and oil, With vinegar, too――but a moderate portion―― Too much of acid your salad will spoil. Mix them together; You need not mind whether You blend them exactly in apple-pie order! But when you’ve stirr’d away, Mix up the whole you may―― All but the eggs, which are used as a border. Take, take plenty of seasoning; A teaspoon of parsley that’s chopped in small pieces. Though, though, the point will bear reasoning, A small taste of onion the flavour increases. As the sauce curdle may, Should it, the process stay; Patiently do it again in due order. For, if you chance to spoil Vinegar, eggs, and oil. Still to proceed would on lunacy border. _Punch._ ―――― SONG BY A SURGEON. Take, take, blue pill and colocynth: Hey, Sir! your liver is much out of order. Take, take, rhubarb and aqua menth: Close on acute inflammation you border. Symptoms about your head, Make me congestion dread, When I take them with the rest in conjunction; Leave off wine, beer and grog: Arrowroot all your prog, Let organs rest to recover their function. _Punch_, November 12, 1859. ―――― RIFLEMEN BOTH SIDES OF THE BORDER. Drill, drill, London and Manchester, Shoulder your Enfields and shoot in good order; Drill, drill, Glasgow and Edinburgh; Don’t be behind us, on your side the border. Foreigners oft have said BRITAIN’S old fire is dead, Let your array tell a different story: Arm and make ready then, Squires, Shop, and Warehousemen, Scotchman and Englishman, Liberal and Tory. Come from the shops, where your goods you are praising, Come from your moors, from the red deer and roe: Come to the ground where the targets they’re raising, Come from your ledgers, per contra and Co. Bugles are sounding, drill sergeants grounding, Practice your wind in loose skirmishing order, Foes will think twice, I lay, ’ere they provoke a fray―― Once Britain stands in arms, both sides the Border. _Punch_, December 3, 1859. Written at the time the great Rifle Volunteer movement was starting into life in England and Scotland. ――――:o:―――― MR. KEMBLE’S FAREWELL ADDRESS. _On taking leave of the Edinburgh Stage._ Mr. Kemble’s last appearance in Edinburgh was on the evening of Saturday, March 29, 1817, on which occasion he performed _Macbeth_. At the close of the tragedy Mr. Kemble recited a beautiful farewell address, which had been composed for him by Walter Scott. It is only necessary to quote a few lines from the commencement and the end of this well-known poem:―― As the worn warhorse, at the trumpet’s sound, Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground, Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns, And longs to rush on the embattled lines, So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear, Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; To think my scenic hour for ever past, And that these valued plaudits are my last. * * * * * But my last part is play’d, my knell is rung, When e’en your praise falls faltering from my tongue; And all that you can hear, or I can tell, Is――Friends and Patrons, hail! and FARE YOU WELL! ―――― In “Reminiscences of the Court of Session (Scotland), as it was a few years ago,” by George Outram, Esq., Advocate, 1856, there is a parody of “Mr. Kemble’s farewell Address.” The subject of it is Mr. Patrick Robertson’s taking leave of the Bar on his promotion to the Bench. “Before assuming the judicial vestments, Robertson was entertained at a farewell dinner by the sorrowing friends he was to leave without the bar, and from whom he was henceforth by judicial decorum to be separated. The following address (written probably by either Douglas Cheape, Esq., Advocate, or by the late Lord Neaves, one of the judges,) was prepared to be spoken by the guest of the evening.” As the worn show-horse whom Ducrow so long Has taught to prance before the applauding throng, Now all unfit to play his wonted part, Turns the dull mill or tracts the ignoble cart; If, midst his daily toils, perchance he hears Great Wombell’s trumpets, and the attendant cheers, Strives from his rear the cumbrous load to fling, And longs to circle in his ancient ring―― So I, when loud your festive laughter swells, Would gladly don once more my cap and bells, So sad it is to deem my triumphs past, And think these joyous plaudits are my last. Warned by some symptoms of a certain age, To-night a veteran quits the mirthful stage; A certain age a certain post requires―― Not prematurely Robertson retires. At eight-and-forty, when the locks are grey, ’Tis time to doff one’s comedy array, And leave, while youth’s excesses we retrench, Some space between the banquet and the Bench. Time was, when even the rigid and the wise Might scan my levities with lenient eyes; Cast in a mould denied to other men―― (Great Jove will hardly use it soon again)―― If not with wit, at least with words at will, The wish to please――and, shall I say, the skill? Peers, parsons, players, applauded as I spoke, And Huntly loved, and Scott endured the joke. Each look would set the table in a roar: And when the look was grave, men laughed the more. Hard task! and how performed, Jove best can tell, To serve two masters, and to serve them well; For Momus can with Mammon ill agree, And jealous Themis hates Euphrosyne. But, now, farewell the mimic look and tone, The general question, and the big trombone That makes the orchestra nothing――Oh! farewell To Oscar’s melody and Ossian’s shell; The stammering cornet, the Italian air; Farewell the bagman, and farewell the beer; Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious fun, Farewell――for Peter’s occupation’s done. Yet still the fire, that burned too fierce before, May shed a chastened light your evenings o’er; Sometimes the mountain may bring forth its mouse To please the laughers in the Outer-House. Nay, even in yonder niche installed on high, Some jest or pun Lord Peter may let fly, Clerk, counsel, agents, mid the weekly roll, Shall vainly strive their muscles to control; Wide spreads the infectious laugh, and even a while The losing litigant consents to smile; * * * * * All but the macer, grieved to see no more The classic gravity that Corehouse wore. But to return: if you have owed to me One witless jest, one pointless repartee―― If I at good mens’ feasts too long have lolled, And seldom stirred when bells to church have knolled―― If censuring tongues might of my errors tell, As loving mirth, not wisely but too well―― If even in caution’s course I missed my aim, Tried jokes by stealth, and blushed to find them fame―― The few preposterous efforts I have made By this too partial tribute are repaid. Could my big bosom prop the sinking line, Then I could speak what feelings now are mine. But fancy fails, expression dies away; In feeble murmers I can only say, Amidst my throbbing heart’s tumultuous strife: “This is the proudest moment of my life!” ――――:o:―――― LAMENT FOR TABBY; or, _The Cat’s Coronach_. And art thou fall’n, and lowly laid, The housewife’s boast, the cellar’s aid, Great mouser of thy day; Whose rolling eyes, and aspect dread, Whole whiskered legions oft have fled In midnight battle fray. There breathes not kitten of thy line, But would have given his life for thine. O! could I match the peerless strain, That wailed for Black Sir Roderic slain, Or that whose milder tone O’er Gertrude, fall’n in beauty’s prime, The grace of Pennsylvania’s clime, Raised the sepulchral moan! Such strain might burst th’ eternal bar, And reach thy spirit from afar. But thou remote from pain and strife. Now reap’st the meed of virtuous life In some Elysian grove, Where endless streams of milk abound, And soft valerian paints the ground, Thy joyous footsteps rove; With Tasso’s cat, by poets named, And Whittington’s in story famed, _Requiescat in pace!_ From _The Satirist_, March 1814. ――――:o:―――― THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. The numerous Parodies of this poem are principally founded upon passages in the introduction, and the opening verses of Cantos the second, third, and sixth, a few lines from each of which will be given to recall them to the reader’s mind for comparison. INTRODUCTION. The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His wither’d cheek, and tresses gray, Seem’d to have known a better day! The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry; For, well a day! their date was fled, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppress’d Wish’d to be with them, and at rest. No more on prancing palfrey borne, He caroll’d light as lark at morn; No longer courted and caress’d, High placed in hall, a welcome guest, He pour’d, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay: Old times were changed, old manners gone A stranger fill’d the Stuarts’ throne; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering Harper, scorn’d and poor, He begg’d his bread from door to door, And tuned, to please a peasant’s ear, The harp, a king had loved to hear. WALTER SCOTT. * * * * * ―――― ANOTHER LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. The Tide was low, the wind was cold, Upon the sands the minstrel strolled; His burnt-cork cheek and croaking lay Seemed to have known a better day; His banjo, sole remaining joy, Was thrummed by an obstreperous boy; The last of all the band was he Who sang of nigger minstrelsy. For, well a day! their date was fled―― His tuneful brethren earned their bread In other channels. He confessed That had he done so it were best. No more to fiddle, harp and horn, He sang his melodies forlorn; No longer courted and caressed, The tenor squared his manly chest, And poured to lord and lady gay His unpremeditated lay. Old times were changed, old music gone, The folks had “scientific” grown, Neglected his untutored chime, Pronouncing _Wagner_ quite sublime. A wandering nigger, scorned and poor, He hummed and strummed from door to door, And tuned, to please a vagrant ear, The banjo swells had loved to hear. _Funny Folks_, May 22, 1875. ―――― THE GRAND OLD M――INSTREL. [“Mr. Gladstone, attired in a light summer suit, and without any wrapper round his throat, walked on Tuesday afternoon up Whitehall from his residence in Richmond-terrace. On reaching Trafalgar Square the right hon. gentleman was closely followed by a considerable number of people. He repeatedly raised his hat in acknowledgment of the salutes he received from many persons as he proceeded. Turning up the Strand, Mr. Gladstone made his way in the direction of Covent Garden, still followed by about a hundred persons.”――_Daily News_, July, 1885.] The sun was hot, the day was bright, The statesman found his collars tight; He threw the starchy things aside, And round his neck no choker tied; In summer suit he quickly dressed―― True Paisley cloth, and of the best, Presented by admiring Scots Who gave him presents, lots on lots. “Ah, now,” he cried, in accents gay, “I think I’ll take a walk to-day; The crowd that oft my footsteps dogs, Will never know me in these togs; Not one can recognise in me, The potent statesmen, W.G.!” He first from Richmond Terrace hied, Without policeman at his side; And then up Whitehall took the air Until he reached Trafalgar Square; By twos and threes the folks came out And welcomed Gladstone with a shout; Others, attracted by the sound, In tens and dozens gathered round; Desiring but to be alone, The baffled Statesman hurried on; With eager steps he paced along, But always followed by the throng; He fled from crowded street to street, Precipitately in retreat; And yet, despite the pace he flew, The crowd only the greater grew; And now, though several days have gone, That Statesman still is hurrying on; And strangers in a London street Perchance may any moment meet An old man in a summer suit Endeavouring to avoid pursuit, But vainly; for where’er he goes The crowd behind him cheers and grows. _The Weekly Echo_, July 25, 1885. ―――― THE LAY OF THE LAST CAB-HACK. The way was long, the wind was cold, The cab-hack was infirm and old. His withered hide, a dirty grey, Seemed to have known a better day; His nose-bag, sole remaining joy, Was pilfered by a ragged boy. The last of all the hacks was he, Of bony frame and broken knee: For, well-a-day, their date was fled, His wretched brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppressed, Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more ’neath damsel lightly borne, He caracolled like lark at morn; No longer curried and caressed, Snug placed in stall of corn the best, He pranced for lord and lady gay Throughout the equine-octial day. His form was changed, his strength was gone, A stranger owned his frame of bone; His master of the iron time To starve him thought it not a crime―― A wandering cabby, scorned and poor, He urged his hack from door to door, And drove, to win a peasant’s fare, The horse that once a lord did bear. He crawled where London’s smoky Tower Looks out from Thames’ muddy bower; The cab-hack gazed with wistful eye, Alas! no resting-place was nigh, With weak and faltering step at last The glaring sausage-shop he passed, Whose ponderous chopping-up machine The rest of all his race had seen. The shopman marked his weary pace, His hang-dog mien and bony face, And bade his boy the cabby tell He’d buy if he the hack would sell; For he had bought much worse than he, Though born of racing pedigree, In pride of power, in beauty’s bloom―― They’d gone unwept to this same tomb. _Funny Folks._ ―――― THE BRAY OF THE LAST DONKEY. The way was long, the wind was cold, The donkey was infirm and old; His wrinkled nose and rough coat grey, Seemed to have known a better day; A whip, that sadden’d all his joy, Was wielded by an awful boy; The last of all his race was he, Who lived in age of chivalry. For, well-a-day, their date had fled, His long-ear’d brethren all were dead; And he, o’er-loaded and oppress’d, Would soon be with them――and at rest. No more with light load gladly borne, He caracolled from night till morn; No longer well-fed and caress’d. High placed in stall, a welcome guest, He pour’d to lord and lady gay His most unmusical of bray; Old steeds were changed, the donkeys gone, The stalls with horses filled alone, Proud favourites of degenerate time―― Even his braying call’d a crime, A groggy donkey, starved and poor, He carried sand from door to door, Hard words and blows still doomed to bear. Till death relieves him from his care. ANONYMOUS. ―――― THE LAY OF THE LAST MINISTRY. The way was long, the voters cold, The Minister was weak――not old; His wither’d hopes and messes gay Seem’d to have known a better day; The lyre, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by the Office Boy; The last of the stop-gaps was he, And which his name was Salisbury. His brethren to the towns had fled, Expecting to be shortly dead, And he, dejected and oppress’d, Wished they were back, and feared for rest. No more on wings of fancy borne He chortled light as lark at morn; No longer standing on the boards As leader of the House of Lords, To nobles young, and nobles grey, He pour’d the Governmental lay: His occupation nearly gone, _He_ felt he must vacate his throne; For many at Election-time Look’d on his policy as crime. A Premier on a touting tour, He begged for votes from door to door, And tried to please the peasant’s ear With tunes that few might care to hear. Et cetera. _Fun_, November 18, 1885. This was accompanied by a cartoon representing the Marquis of Salisbury as the aged minstrel, with Lord Randolph Churchill as his boy carrying the lyre. ――――:o:―――― CANTO III. And said I that my limbs were old, And said I that my blood was cold, And that my kindly fire was fled, And my poor wither’d heart was dead, And that I might not sing of love;―― How could I, to the dearest theme That ever warm’d a minstrel’s dream, So foul, so false a recreant prove! How could I name love’s very name, Nor wake my heart to notes of flame! In peace, love tunes the shepherd’s reed; In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed; In halls, in gay attire is seen; In hamlets, dances on the green, Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above; For love is heaven, and heaven is love. WALTER SCOTT. * * * * * W. E. GLADSTONE in March, 1880. And thought they I was growing old? And hoped they that my hate was cold; And that my vengeful fire was fled, And that my hopes of power were dead; And that I might not sigh for place? How could I to the dearest theme That ever warmed a statesman’s dream Prove recreant so foul and base? How could I name its very name, Nor wake to life its smould’ring flame? In Session prudence tunes the reed, ’Tis otherwise across the Tweed! In Parliament, one’s forced to wear Restraint that one can doft elsewhere! St. Stephen’s needs a smoothened tongue, In Scotland fierce can be my song! Blest he who has a double face, When place is Heaven and Heaven is place! From _They are Five_, by W. E. G. (London, David Bogue, 1880.) ――――:o:―――― CANTO VI. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d, As home his footsteps he hath turn’d, From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung. O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e’er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand! * * * * * WALTER SCOTT. ―――― A DECLAMATION. By Miss Mudge, _the Blue Stocking_. Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never several times has read The works of Spencer and of Mill! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As o’er the pages he has turned Of Hamilton upon the Will! If such there breathe, go rate him well, For him no student’s raptures swell. High though his titles, what of them? I want a man whose diadem Is the Binomial Theorem! What matters it how proud his look, He knows not Euclid’s second book! His wealth is boundless――that may be; But how about his Rule of Three? Despite his titles, pride and pelf, And all the books upon his shelf, The wretch not knowing Algebra, Shall greeted be with shouts of “Bah!” Whilst many an one, his soul to vex, Shall ask him what’s the power of _x_ And give him, heeding not his groans, Equations with the three unknowns. Until at last, his torture’s o’er, He seeks a School Board’s open door; And there, by jeers to action stung, Begins on learning’s lowest rung, O Conic Sections! oft reviled, How sweet thou art to this young child! And book eleven of Euclid too, How sweet it is thy props, to do! And then to draw from them deductions! There’s but one thing still better――Fluxions! Geometry! what mortal hand Can e’er untie the knotted band That knits me to thy propositions, Thy postulates and definitions! Strong too’s the cord which fastens me To Statics and Geology! Still stronger those which me affiance To thee, my own, my Natural Science! But strongest are the heavenly ones That join me to Mars’ late-found suns! [_She collapses._ From _Finis_. ―――― ON SCOTCH PATRIOTISM. Breathes there a Scot with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said Farewell for aye, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned As he his willing steps hath turned To wander on a foreign strand! Who has not with a spirit gay From his loved Scotia trudged away To join the fortune-hunting band! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no canny raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, He is an idiot all the same. No pupil apt of Gaelic school, He is a patriotic fool, A simple and un-Scottish clown Who, living, forfeits fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unsnuffed, unwhiskied, and unsung. O Caledonia! stern and wild, Thou did’st not suit the Scottish child! Thy lovely scenery but tells On those brave Scots who keep hotels; Thy plain and mountain, loch and moor, Are only dear to those who tour. Land of my sires! what mortal hand Could e’er invite me to thy strand? Still, as I view each well-known scene, I think of what things might have been And shudder as I think once more That I might ne’er have left thy shore. Whilst songs of triumph fill my mouth, That I so early went down South. O. P. Q. P. SMIFF. _The Figaro_, August 1, 1874. ―――― PILOSAGINE. Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, “To have moustaches would be grand.” Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned As o’er the paper he hath turned And Wright’s advertisement hath scanned? If such there be, go, mark him well, And in his ears the good news tell: Pilosagine has gained a name, All who have tried it own its fame: While thousands prove its great renown By the moustaches they have grown; Whiskers and beards on many a face Their origin likewise to it trace, It contains no oil, is free from grease, And now forsooth our rhyme must cease. But what, you ask, is the expense? ’Tis sent post free for eighteenpence. OLD ADVERTISEMENT. ―――― Lives there a man with soul so dead, Who never to his wife has said, “I love a bit of home-made bread!” Or can a man of aught be prouder, Than to have cried in tones still louder, “I like it made with Borwick’s Powder!” ―――― SPECIMEN OF SMIFF’S LITERARY ADVERTISEMENTS. _The Poetic Style._ Breathes there a man with taste so dead, Who never to himself hath said, “This is the spirit of my choice,” As he his steaming glass hath stirred? Who hath not slightly raised his voice, So that his words might all be heard―― O _something_ Whiskey, strong yet mild, Sweet spirit, pure and undefiled; From thee, as doctors oft have proved, The fusil oil has been removed; Unlike the other spirits, thou Bring’st not an aching to the brow. Of thee no biliousness is born, No coppers hot the following morn; Men drink of thee at noon, at night, And rise quite fresh at morning light; Men drink of thee, and drink again, To guard ’gainst rheumatism’s pain. * * * * * But there are some, I grieve to say, Who act in quite a silly way; Who every day their vitals spoil, By drinking lots of fusil oil. Yes, such there be, go――mark them well! Their sallow cheeks the secret tell. Sound though their stomachs may have been, Their livers active, palates clean; Yet, thanks to fusil’s deadly force, Fell indigestion comes, of course. _The Figaro_, October 4, 1876. ――――:o:―――― CANTO VII. O, Caledonia! very stern and wild,[34] And only dear to those who travel through you: The poet says you’re lov’d by each Scotch child, But you do not believe such nonsense, do you? What Scotchman is there that would not be riled, If he was bound for life to stick close to you? No, Land of heath, and loch, and shaggy moor, You’re only dear, say we, to those who tour. O, Land of Whisky, Oatmeal, Bastards, Bibles; O Land of Kirks, Kilts, Claymores, Kail, and Cant,―― Of lofty mountains and of very high hills, Of dreary “Sawbaths,” and of patriot rant O land which Dr. Johnson foully libels, To sound thy praises does our hero pant; And to relate how, from engagements freed, He calmly vegetated north of Tweed. He saw “Auld Reekie,” climbed up Arthur’s Seat, And thought the modern Athens a fine city; Admired the view he got from Prince’s Street, And wished the lassies could have been more pretty―― With smaller bones, and less decided feet; He found the cabmen insolent, though witty: The Castle “did,” and, ere he slept, had been on The Calton Hill, and seen the new Parthenon. The Edinburgh “Sawbath” bored him, though, ’Twas like being in a city of the dead; With solemn steps, and faces full of woe, The people to their kirks and chapels sped, Heard damning doctrines, droned some psalms, and so Went home again with Puritanic tread; Pulled down their blinds, and in the evening glooms, Got very drunk in their back sitting-rooms. * * * * * From _Jon Duan_. ―――― Ye Grand Adventures of some MODERN MEN OF MIGHT. Showing how Don Salisbury Quixote de la Hatfield set out to keep watch over his arms and armour, ere he could be admitted a Knight of the Primrose. _The Don’s Midnight Vigil._ The sky was dark, the air was cold, But firm Don Salisbury was and bold, As, undeterred by nights alarms, He vigil kept to watch his arms. Above him, as he humbly kneel’d, Rose the bronze form of Beaconsfield―― The man whom once he had reviled, But whom long since, with fervour wild, He’d seemed to love; but who looked down As ’twere with a sardonic frown, As, very far from being at ease, Don Salisbury groaned upon his knees. Each side him, on the Statue’s base, He for his armour’d found a place, And there he watch’d it, till, so sore, That he could bear to kneel no more, He staggered to his feet again, And sighing from excessive pain, His lance he grasped, and with a moan Limped lamely on his vigil lone. The gas-jets round but flickered dim, And in their light it seemed to him That with a look of scorn intent The Statue’s eyes were on him bent. Nay, more, as he returned the gaze, He thought he saw the Statue raise Its dexter arm and point south-west, As though his notice to arrest. Nor was the intimation vain, For as the Don his eye did strain, He saw folks in Victoria Street, Caught, too, the tramp of many feet; And, listening still, soon overheard Such sounds that he at once inferred, It was the promised delegation Sent by the Primrose Habitation To take him to the Hall of Light Where he was to be dubbed a Knight. * * * * * _Truth, Christmas Number_, 1885. ―――― ALBERT GRAEME. It was an English ladye bright, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And she would marry a Scottish Knight, For love will still be lord of all. Blithely they saw the rising sun, When he shone fair on Carlisle wall; But they were sad ere day was done, Though Love was still the lord of all. * * * * * Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle Wall,) Pray for their souls who died for love, For Love shall still be lord of all! WALTER SCOTT. _The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto VI._ ―――― THE LAY OF THE POOR FIDDLER. WILLIE. It was a toper one Saturday night, (The fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall,) And he would spend a shilling so bright, For strong liquor will still be lord of all. Blithely he posted with jolly red face, To where the fire shines on yon Ale-house wall, But that night was scarce o’er when in piteous case, He found that strong liquor was lord of all. He pawned his shirt and his breeches both, Where the fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall; He then did swear a terrible oath, For ire that liquor was lord of all. In a hurry home he naked ran From where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall; The night was too cold for a naked man, Tho’ strong liquor was still the lord of all. His limbs were cold, though his face was red As the fire that shines on yon ale-house wall; He craved for admission, his wife was in bed, For strong liquor was there the lord of all. She looked through the window and bade him go Where the fire shines bright on yon ale-house wall; Or she on his hot skull would throw The liquor that is not lord of all! He shivering ran with might and main, To where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall; But the door was locked he bawled in vain, For strong liquor was there the lord of all. When morning came, quite dead he lay, Close by the door in yon ale-house wall; The frost his blood had chilled they say, And strong liquor is still the lord of all. Now all ye topers when ye view The fire shining bright on an ale-house wall; Pray for his soul who once did rue That strong liquor was e’er the lord of all. This ballad is from _The Lay of the Poor Fiddler_, by an admirer of Walter Scott. B. and R. Crosby & Co., London, 1814. This scarce little volume of 167 pages, is a tolerably close Parody of “_The Lay of the Last Minstrel_.” It is, like the original, in six Cantos, and is accompanied by numerous notes, in which the legendary lore, and archæological learning of Scott, are humourously and ingeniously burlesqued. The opening lines of each Canto are modelled upon those of Scott’s poem, a few extracts may be given:―― INTRODUCTION. The night was dark, the wind did howl, When Tom the Fiddler left his bowl; His nose once of a fiery hue, Was now deep tinged with modest blue; Fierce o’er the heath the wind did blow, And swiftly fell the drifting snow. Tom was returning from the fair With lightsome heart devoid of care; His fiddle, as I’ve heard it sung, Across one ample shoulder hung In leathern case, and by his side, A horn of snuff was well supplied; A huge nob-stick he firmly grasped, And to his breast a loaf he clasped,―― Poor Tom had once seen better days Than fiddling for a looby’s praise; At country club, or wake, or fair, He would have scorned to scrape a hair; But now alas! old times are gone, He roams neglected and unknown; And strangers claim that high renown Which Tommy once had thought his own. At length he reaches a large mansion, he craves admission and shelter from the storm: The lady happened to be nigh, She heard his voice and language high, She marked his wet and dirty clothes, His pimpled cheek and reverend nose, And bade her maid the servants tell, That they should use the fiddler well: For she had known adversity, Tho’ raised to such a high degree; And sorrow too, for in her bloom She wept o’er her third husband’s tomb. After due attention to the creature comforts of the Fiddler, he obliges the company with his lay, in the manner of Scott’s last Minstrel, and at the end of each Canto refreshes himself with a draught of good October ale. The opening lines of the third Canto describe his partiality for strong liquor:―― I. And said I that my throat was dry; And said I that no cheer was nigh, And that all giving souls were dead, And that the good to heaven were fled. And that I ne’er should put my nose Again into a tankard’s brim; And that I ne’er again should dose, Before an ale-house hearth so grim? How could I fancy such mishap, Would e’er fall from Dame Fortune’s lap, On me the happiest of mankind, The merriest mortal you may find? II. In peace, malt liquor’s cheap and good; In war, ’tis poor and badly brewed; In kitchens, now they drink small beer; Malt, hops and water, grow so dear. Good liquor rules both church and state, It brightens many a stupid pate; And men and saints, to my own thinking, Are often prone unto hard drinking. Heaven, we are told, through a glass is seen; A glass of grog is what they mean. * * * * * The poem closes with a description of Tommy’s fate:―― Hushed is the fiddle――Tommy’s gone; But did he roam, unhoused, unknown, Again thro’ wilds and deserts drear? No succour nigh, or alehouse near? Oh no:――close by this stately hall, So snug, with newly white-washed wall, Appears Tom’s cot; with lattice clean, And window-shutters painted green, A garden, hen-pen, and a stye, Well stock’d with sundries, stand close by; And every want is well supplied, And every blessing is enjoyed. * * * * * ―――― BREATHES THERE A MAN WITH SOUL SO DEAD. Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, Confound that horrid Little-Go Whose heart within him ne’er has burned, As from the papers he has turned, When them he found he did’nt know. If such there be――go! mark him well For him no Poll will do as well As honours high, or wrangler’s name A fellowship’s his only aim. Not _his_ to lie upon the shelf; Poor wretch sustainer of himself A living comes thro’ his renown. Nor unrewarded goes he down To the small hamlet whence he sprung, A hero great as bards have sung. From _The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_. (Metcalfe and Sons, Cambridge.) ―――― THE LAY OF THE FIRST MINSTREL. _By Sir Walter Scott-free, Bart._ It was an Oxford Scholar bright, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) And he would get him thoroughly tight, For Gilbey’ll still be lord of all. Blithely he saw the coming dun, As bright as sun on Charsley’s Hall, Alas! his race was well nigh run And Gilbey’ll still be lord of all. The dun drinks wine, and tastes it well, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) Then came Cremation and he fell, So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all. He fell not by the “Old Red Heart,” (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) He fell by Gilbey’s fiery art, To prove that Gilbey’s lord of all. The scholar spurned the knife and fork, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) And cut his throat with Gilbey’s cork, So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all. From _The Shotover Papers_ (Oxford), October 17, 1874. ――――:o:―――― The following extract is taken from a very amusing volume, entitled “_Lays of the Saintly_,” by Mr. Walter Parke, published by Vizetelly and Co., London. The ballad introduced is a Parody of the style of ballads contained in Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. ST. FILLAN’S ARM. (_A Lay of Scott-land._) Harp of the North, that hangs, or used to hang, “On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan’s spring” (_Which_ elm I know not), wake thy tuneful twang, And keep thy wires in order while I sing In verse of true Sir Walter Scottish ring; And lest your Minstrel’s strength should haply faint Glenlivat shall its inspiration bring; Thus will we make the Sassenach acquaint With blessed Fillan’s life, thy friend and patron Saint. I. If thou would’st view old Pittenweem aright, Go visit it by the broad daylight, For if the night were murky, pray How couldst thou ken that fair Abbaye! And should it eke come on to rain, Thy pleasure would be turn’d to pain; But when the golden sunbeams smile On ruin’d nave and barren aisle, When noontide rays enlivening fall On thirstly floor and weedy wall. So that thou need’st not break thy bones Or shins against the rugged stones, Then go, but take a trusty guide Who knows the country far and wide, And give him half-a-crown or so, To tell thee all that he may know; But should he show thee Fillan’s tomb Within some cloister’s ivied gloom, Believe him not, although he swear, Because the Saint’s not buried there. II. Breathes there the man who having read All that the Northern Bard has said, All the particulars supplied By travellers’ tomes and Murray’s Guide, Of Scotia’s landscapes fair and grand, Longs not to see that favour’d land? Oh, would that _I_ could get the chance To view those regions of romance, What pleasure to be climbing now Ben Dizzy’s stern and lofty brow! How sweet to stand beside the Frith That owes its waters to Loch Smith, To mark Bel-hangar’s ruin’d pile, And Ion-munga’s charmed isle, Whilst in the distance can be seen The giant peaks of Ben Zoleen,[35] And, if the weather be not dull, The fragrant isle of Sneeshin-Mull; And, floating like a mirage there, That phantom ship, the “_Brig_ of _Ayr_” Sails where Loch Toddy’s smile creates A beauty that intoxicates. Then view, my fancy, if thou wilt, Knights tourneying within Glen-_Tilt_, Hear Roderick Dhu and brave Fitz-James Calling each other dreadful names, And see them chase, through bosky dells The _hart_ that “in the Highlands” dwells. Oh, if some friend would pay my fare, How “like a bird” I’d wander there! III. The meal was over at Pittenweem; The monks had gone to their cells to dream, Or heavily sleep, as the case might be, Till waked by the bell at half-past three; The Abbot had gone to his private tower, For _he_ sat up till a later hour, And oft he would have his under-prior To sit and talk by the cosy fire; For Abbots of old, you may suppose, Could do in such matters as they chose, And here, from the mill-stream’s outer loch To the tippest top of the weather-cock, Good Fillan the Abbot ruled supreme―― Such was the custom of Pittenweem. IV. The night was long, the weather cold; A Minstrel, neither young nor old, Whose ragged coat and shoes in holes Wrung pity from those monkish souls, Entered the Abbey’s lower hall, Whence, duteous to the Abbot’s call, He brought himself and harp upstairs And ’gan show off his Scottish airs. It was a charity to bring Such warbler in the place to sing. St. Fillan gave him ample cheer And copious draughts of home-made beer, Till, while that inspiration work’d, This music from the wires he jerk’d:―― V. BALLAD. THE BLUE BROTHER. (Parody of a Ballad in “Percy’s Reliques.”) ’Twas on Maxwelton’s bonny braes (“Where early fa’s the dew.”) That at the set of sun I met A Friar of Orders blue. With sigh, and frown, and eyes cast down, His face was sad to see; Some heavy care was settled there―― Whatever could it be? “Come hither, come hither, thou Holy Friar, Why dost thou look so blue?” He answer’d stern――“I’ve yet to learn What that’s to do with _you_.” “Wert thou,” I asked, “a baron bold, Who sought a hermit’s lot, Because thy love so false did prove?” He answer’d, “I was _not_.” “And hast thou fought in distant climes, Seen mighty cities fall, And wounded been a score of times?” He answered, “Not at all.” “And did thy true love follow thee, In page’s garb disguised? And when thou foundest it was she, Say, wert thou not surprised?” “No true love ever follow’d me Thus garbed; or if she had, At once, I ween, I must have seen ’Twas she, and not a lad.” “And did she, stricken by thy side In thy embrace expire?” “Good gracious! no――who told you so? He _must_ have been a liar.” “Or hadst thou woed some ladye fair, And wast about to wed, But saw or heard that she preferr’d Another knight instead? “And didst thou seek their trysting-place, And fiercely slay them both, And there inter both him and her?” “I did’nt, on my oath!” “Or did’st thou quarrel with a maid, Who loved thee all the time, And seek a hermitage’s shade? Far in a foreign clime; “And did the maiden seek thee out, Dress’d like a pilgrim-boy? And, having found thee safe and sound, Die, there and then, for joy?” Fire flash’d from that Blue Brother’s eye; “’Tis well,” he cried, “for you, That I’m a Friar, else in mine ire Some mischief might I do! “Why should I tell to such as thou The story of my youth? My patience is exhausted now, Denying each untruth. “You’re right, so far, if you suppose I’ve seen some woes and cares, But, mark you well, I never tell To strangers my affairs.” The vesper-bell rang thro’ the dell; Abrupt he sped away, And not another syllable Did to this minstrel say. And tho’ upon Maxwelton’s braes Since then I’ve often been, I know not why, but never I Have that Blue Brother seen. VI. The Abbot praised the Minstrel’s skill, And gave him siller――better still; What wonder that such vagrant men, Encouraged thus, should come agen? For Fillan’s heart was warm and large, He never gave these folks in charge, And tho’ the bagpipe made him groan, He let his torturer alone. Well used, I wot, were one and all Within St. Fillan’s Abbey-wall; Even the cats were fed on cream―― Such was the custom of Pittenweem. * * * * * ―――― Another imitation of _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_ was “_The Lay of the Scottish Fiddle_,” a poem in Five Cantos (with notes in galore) supposed to be written by W――――. S――――., Esq., London, 1814. This parody was at first attributed to the pen of Washington Irving, but is now generally ascribed to his brother-in-law, James Kirke Paulding, a voluminous author, well-known on the other side of the Atlantic. The parody appears to have been first published in the United States, and then re-produced in London. The author, for the purpose of his burlesque, describes the unhappy war then raging between Great Britain and his own country, as predatory, and treats of the British officers as border chieftains and freebooters. Such poetical license, especially on the part of an avowed foe, seems quite excusable, yet the Editor of the English Edition, in his preface, is very severe both on the poem and the notes which accompany it. These notes are voluminous, occupying nearly as many pages as the parody itself, and they are partly humorous and satirical, but principally descriptive of events alluded to in the poem, which had occurred during the war. There were some imitations of Scott’s _Lay_ in _Truth_, January 18, 1877, and also in the Christmas number of _Truth_ for 1877. “_A Lay to the Last Minstrel_,” inscribed to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, by Edward Churton (London, John Murray, 1874), is not, as one might suppose from the title, either an imitation, or a parody of Scott. It is merely an essay on his poetical genius, with some lines in his praise. ――――:o:―――― MARMION. This was the next poem published by Scott after _The Lay_. It contains several passages which have been singled out for frequent imitation, notably Lady Heron’s Song, _Lochinvar_, and the well-known lines in Canto VI.:―― “O woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!”―― * * * * ―――― AN ENGLISH POET TO A SCOTCH CRITIC, Oh! Scotsman! in thine hour of ease Uncanny, slow, and hard to please,―― And querulous in thy tirade As shrewish wife or sour old maid―― When too much “whusky” stings thy brow, An unco’ sarcy devil thou! _(Slightly!) altered from Scott (to Scot)._ ―――― A GOOD WIFE. “But, on the whole, Chloe is a good wife. If I have a cold she dresses me in linseed poultices, and doses me with all kinds of potions; and even in my suffering I can appreciate the poetic exclamation―― “Oh, woman! in our hours of ease, Impatient, coy, and hard to please: As ineffectual as the shade By a defective gingham made: As difficult wherewith to deal As any sly and cunning eel; But, oh! when hoarseness grasps the thorax, How nimble, thou, with soothing borax!” ―――― A DEDICATION. O woman! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, Yet, barring pins, how soft to squeeze! Unequall’d too at making cheese―― And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; And “very able,” too thou jade, In managing a shopping raid―― When pain and anguish wring the brow, Well, one of two things then art thou: That is, thou’rt either a born nurse; Or else a nuisance, if not worse! O Woman! too, in hours of woe, Into hysterics apt to go: When trouble levies its distraint, How prompt art thou thereon to faint! When danger’s for the time supreme, How ready art thou, too, to scream! In fact, what hour of night or day Is there when thou’rt not in the way? From _Finis_, 1877. ――――:o:―――― THE MANSION HOUSE MARMION. [In 1883, when there was much talk of impending and very desirable reforms in the Government of the Metropolis, Lord Mayor Fowler gave a dinner to the City magnates. He then expressed his great surprise that Mr. Forster should have recommended him to become first Lord Mayor of the new Corporation. “Far from that,” he asserted, “he would fight the new Bill, line by line and clause by clause;” and he then proceeded to declaim to his vociferous fellow-citizens Marmion’s speech to King James.] The City Carlton merrily With wassail rung, and mirth and glee, For Tory City-Fathers there Feasted the Marquis and Lord Mayor. The spread outshone all banquets past; The wine and wit flowed free and fast; Till, ’midst approving sound, The loyal toasts were drunk in turn; And then, whilst civic hearts waxed stern, The Loving-Cup went round. And easy was the task, I trow, The Marquis’ manly form to know, When, his great courtesy to show, He drank with Fowler, bending low To meet the goblet’s brim; And City men who saw the sight, Demonstrative in their delight, Gave several cheers for him. Ere long, uprising from his chair To toast the City, Mr. Mayor Stood, in his new-found fame; But for some moments could not speak―― His Tory heart swelled nigh to break―― And presently adown his cheek A bitter tear there came. Then memory did his wrath inspire, Then burn’d his furrow’d face with fire, And shook his very beard with ire, As “This to me!” he cried. “From Forster, too, a friend who knows How I persistently oppose Reforms on every side! He little kens the thoughts that roll, Like storm-clouds, through my haughty soul, Or he would not declare That I, a City Tory true, Would of the Corporation new Become the first Lord Mayor!” Still on his cheek the flush of rage O’ercame the ashen hue of age, As he went on, “How dare he, then, Thus beard the Lion in his den―― The Fowler at Guildhall! Or thinks he Harcourt can o’erthrow, And lay our Corporation low? No! by St. Margaret Pattens, No! Up, Tories, then! What, Carden, ho! For your stout aid I call.” Then Fowler turned and laughed, “Ha! ha!” Deep quaffed the bowl and shouted “Bah! Let Harcourt know, if he dare try The City Fathers to defy, That London has its treasures great―― Its funds invested, and its plate; That turtle now is cheap as beef (That Conger _canard’s_ past belief); And that, ere his vile Bill be passed, Those hoards of wealth we have amassed Shall be entirely spent, In Swords of Honour by the score; In Golden Boxes, rained galore, In Banquets gross as those of yore, In jobs still grosser than before, And greater in extent! “That we will many a time persist In opening a Subscription List, Far-off distress to aid; Whilst those who starve about our gate, We’ll leave to their unhappy fate, And hunger unallayed. Know, too, that ere from power we start, We’ll patronise again High Art, And raise the Griffin’s counterpart To dominate the City; That Billingsgate unmoved shall stay, And block the fish-producing-way, Spite what in Parliament they say, Or argue in Committee. “Know, too, that ere all London taste This new reform, we oft will haste Funds left in Charity to waste In gorging and in guzzling; And we, as Aldermen, will mock At justice still; and surely shock Those who are bound to us to flock For our decisions puzzling. “Yes, know, ere Harcourt shall succeed, Shall many a poor man die of need, And thousands suffer for the greed Of our smug Corporation; And London for long years shall bear Fresh burdens that we still may share The plunder, and well bait the snare With which we trap the nation, Pretending that at our own cost We’ve freed the lands the City’d lost, With generous intent; Whereas it safely might be sworn No penny from our hoard’s been torn―― ’Tis duties placed on coal and corn That we’ve so freely spent!” Again, ’midst vehement applause, Did Fowler for a moment pause; Then, facing round to his brave band, And fiercely shaking his clenched hand, He with a sip his voice restored, And once again defiance poured: “Let Harcourt, Firth, and all their crew,” Cried he, “their spiteful ends pursue, I still am here, my friends, with you, My opposition to renew; And ere that Bill shall pass, Full many a brother shall secure Knighthood by rank expenditure; Full many a Scandal we’ll commit; Absorb full many a perquisite; Full many a well-known man we’ll bribe To join some Civic thievish tribe; Full many a day reforms oppose; Full many a time strike coward’s blows; And often to the nation show How small we are, how rude, how low, How stubborn, ignorant, and dense, How totally devoid of sense, And how intensely crass!” Here Fowler ceased, and sat him down, While cheers from all sides came to crown His spirited appeal; Thrice went the Loving Cup around, And thrice did fresh applause resound As those brave City Tories found Fresh impulse for their zeal! _Truth_, November 29, 1883. ――――:o:―――― LOCHINVAR This song, sang by Lady Heron, in _Marmion_, was partly founded on a ballad called “Katharine Janfarie,” which may be found in the “_Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_.” O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west! Through all the wide border his steed was the best; And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone! So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar! He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none―― But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented!――the gallant came late!―― For, a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar! So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, ’Mong bride’s-men and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword―― For the poor, craven bridegroom said never a word―― “O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?―― Or to dance at our bridal?――young Lord Lochinvar!” “I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied: Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide! And now am I come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!―― There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!” The bride kissed the goblet! The knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup! She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh―― With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,―― “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace! While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!” One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near―― So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur! They’ll have fleet steeds that follow!” quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan: Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea―― But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? WALTER SCOTT. ―――― _Benet College, Cambridge_, 1820. DEAR MR. NORTH, We are rather flat here at present, but I enclose you a squiblet, which was written when Sir J. E. Smith, that knight of the gilly-flower, made his grand charge on our Botanical Chair. LOCK-AND-BAR. _A Botany Bay Eclogue._ O Gallant Sir James is come out of the North, Through all that wild region his fame had gone forth; Yet, save the Vice-Chancellor, friend he had none; He came all unask’d, and he came all alone. So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith, There ne’er was Professor like President Smith. He staid not for frown, and he stopp’d not for groan; He put in his clamour where claim he had none; But e’er he arriv’d at a Lecturer’s state, The tutors conspir’d――and the lectures came late. For a Churchman, God wot! and a botanist too, Was to sit in the chair that Sir James had in view. In a rage, then, he stalk’d into College and Hall, Among Bedmakers, Bachelors, Doctors, and all; Then spoke Mr. Marsh in a civilish way, (For some of the Tutors had little to say), “O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dine with the Fellows, or――what come ye for?” “I long wish’d to lecture, my suit you denied, I know you’d have lik’d them, if once you had tried; And now am I come with this Pamphlet of mine, To try a last measure――then leave you to pine; There are students in London more civil by far, That would gladly have welcom’d so brilliant a star.” Sir James shew’d his Pamphlet, and Monk read it through; He gulp’d the hard bits, but he saw ’twoul’d not do; He look’d down to laugh, and pretended to sigh, With a smile on his lip, and a sneer in his eye, Then down comes the rogue with an “answer” forthwith. “This is dealing hard measure!” says President Smith. So stately the tone, and so lovely the print, Even Freshmen conceiv’d there must something be in’t. While Socinians did fret, and Professors did clap, And Webb tore the tassel that deck’d his new cap; And Reviewers did whisper, “’Twere better by far To have match’d your brave knight in some gooseberry war.” A hint such as this had just rung in his ear, When he reach’d the stage-coach, and the coachman stood near; So light to the box that tight coachman he sprung, So snugly the reins o’er the dickey were flung―― We are off! we are off! over bank and o’er hill, “Your pamphlet may follow,” cried James, “if it will.” There is quizzing ’mong wags of the Trinity clan; King’s, Queen’s-men, and Johnians, they all laugh that can, There is joking and smoking in Norwich citiè, But the lost Knight of Botany ne’er do we see, ――So daring in heart, and so dauntless in pith: Was there e’er such a callant as President Smith. This Parody appeared in _Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine_ for November, 1820. Many other excellent parodies and imitations are to be found in the early volumes of Blackwood, (which first appeared in April, 1817) but unfortunately most of them are quite out of date, and would be of little, or no interest to the modern reader. ―――― SONGS OF THE RAIL. O young William Jones is come out of the West, Of all the bright engines, his engine’s the best! And save his grim stoker, he helper had none, He drove all unhelp’d, and he drove all alone, So dauntless he rush’d midst his engine’s loud moans; Did you e’er hear of driver like young WILLIAM JONES? He stopp’d not for water, he stopp’d not for coke, And he skimm’d o’er the streams render’d black by his smoke; But when at the station he slacken’d his rate, The up-train had started, the down-train came late; And a laggard in travel, a luggage-train guard, Was to wed the fair POLLY of JONES’S regard. “I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like a steam-valve, and bursts when it’s tied; And now I am come, with my lost POLLY B. To walk once the platform, drink one cup of tea: There are maidens who’d gladly give body and bones, To jump at the tender of young WILLIAM JONES.” The bride stirred the Congou, the spoon took it up, He quaff’d off the tea, and he put down the cup; She stoop’d on the pavement her sandal to tie, And she show’d her neat foot with a tear in her eye: He took her soft hand, ere her mother said nay; “Now walk on the platform,” said young WILLIAM J. So stately his form, and so beauteous her face, That never a plank such a couple did grace; While the stoker did fret; and the engine did fume, And the station-clerk wink’d in his little back-room, And the navvys all whisper’d, “Ay, BILL, what d’ye say? They’d make a neat couple, that gal and young J.” One touch of her hand, and one word in her ear, And they open’d a carriage that by them stood near; So light o’er the cushions the fair lady sprung―― So light the policeman the bright brass bell rung―― “She is won! we are off! there’s no train in the way, And the next does not stop here” said young WILLIAM J. There was laughing and roaring with every man; They laugh’d and they roar’d till their eyes briny ran: They must get a new maiden to hand out the tea, For the fair MRS. JONES there they never will see; And each one that knows her will laughingly say, “That’s a deucid ’cute fellow, that young WILLIAM J.!” _Punch_, January 22, 1848. ―――― THE RUSSIAN LOCHINVAR. [The first encounter in the Crimean War took place at Oltenitza, on November 4, 1854, when the Russians were defeated. A few days later the Turks retired to Kalafat where they kept the Russians in check for some time.] The big-booted Czar had his eye on the East, For treaties and truces he cares not the least, And save his good pleasure he conscience hath none, He talks like the Vandal and acts like the Hun. So faithless in peace, and so ruthless in war, Have ye e’er heard of King like the big-booted Czar? He stayed not for speech, but with sabre and gun, He rushed into Turkey, though cause there was none; But when he got near to the old Iron Gate, He found certain reasons which urged him to wait. For down by the Danube stood Omar Pasha, Prepared to encounter our big-booted Czar, So he drew up his legions――serf, vassal and thrall, His footmen, and horsemen, and cannons, and all, Then out spake bold Omar, his hand on his sword, In an attitude fitting an Ottoman Lord, “O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to see St. Sophia, you big-booted Czar?” “I’ve long asked your homage, my suit you denied, And my holy religion you’ve scorned and decried, So now I’ve come down with this army of mine, The rights and the wrongs of the case to define, And you have not a chance, for the Musselman star Must pale when it looks on the flag of the Czar.” He flung down his challenge, the Turk took it up (Remarking on slips ’twixt the lip and the cup), And deigned to his logic the briefest reply, “That the claim was unjust, and its proof was a lie,” And he brought up some thousands of swords as a bar To further advance by the big-booted Czar. So before Oltenitza the battle took place, And the Russian thought proper to right about face, For the guns of Stamboul had a menacing boom, And a bombshell sent flying the Dannenburg plume, And the Cossacks all grumbled, “’Twere better by far To eat tallow at home than dine out with the Czar”, One hint would not do, nor one word in his ear, The despot commands, and his men persevere―― So again to the breezes their standards are flung, And Kalafat echoes the war-trumpet tongue, And the Ottoman, charging, has scattered afar The ill-fated troops of the big-booted Czar. There was wild disarray in the rear and the van, The Moslem they rode, and the Cossacks they ran. There was racing and chasing――’twas pleasing to see The Russ as well beat as a Russian can be. May this, and much worse, be all fortune of war That awaits the old pirate, the big-booted Czar. SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1854. ―――― THE PRINCE OF WALES’S RIDE. (à la Lochinvar.) The Prince of Wales was present at the autumn manœuvres in 1871, and the _Times_ gave the following account of a part he took in a sham fight:―― “A party of the dashing 10th Hussars had pushed on too far up the hill, and were captured by our cavalry, and given in as killed by an umpire. They were standing――dead men all――on the ridge, when the Prince and his staff rode up the hill-side, and made towards three of STAVELEY’S guns. In a few seconds His Royal Highness had discovered whose the guns were, and galloped up to the troop of the 10th, who were prisoners (but he did not know it), placed himself at their head, and ordered them to charge the guns. The gunners, perceiving this manœuvre, with great smartness, but little loyalty, put four rounds into the Prince and his Hussars before they were ridden down. The Prince claimed the battery, and an umpire was sent for. Sir H. GRANT, Sir C. STAVELEY, and others came, and the Prince and his party were given in as prisoners; but when Sir CHARLES claimed them, the Prince laughed and galloped off. Then was seen the Heir Apparent, flying before a general of division and his staff, who kept up the pursuit with a will, to loud cries of “Stop him!” “Don’t let him go!” “Seize the Prince!” One of Sir CHARLES’S aides-de-camp got so close that he could have laid his hand on the Prince’s shoulder, but neither for big guns, nor small arms, nor shouts would the Prince draw bridle, and he got clear away, and vanished into the woods below the hill.” It was ALBERT of WALES and his troop of Hussars, Who took horse one fine day to go off to the wars; And their trappings were brilliant, their sabres were bright, As they rode to the Sham (for it _was_ a sham) Fight. “And if any would take the wind out of our sails, They must look sharp about it!” says ALBERT OF WALES. “It is rather slow work, this,” then ALBERT said he. “And to stand and do nothing will hardly suit me. At the side of yon hill, where those clouds of smoke hang, Are the enemy’s cannon――hark! there they go――BANG! Let us try to surprise them――a rush seldom fails: Balaclava the Second!” shouts ALBERT OF WALES. With a crash and a waving of sabres in air, Down they swoop on the gunners――and how these last stare! But although they are startled, not one of them runs: They are Britons, and doggedly stick to their guns, “Now surrender!” (a bombardier thus the PRINCE hails): “Do you yield?”――“No, but _you_ do!” says ALBERT OF WALES. “You are captured, each man Jack!” says he with a laugh.―― “I beg pardon, your Highness, it’s you and your staff.”―― “Oh dear, no!”――“Yes, yes, really,” the umpire submits, “As your Highness’s men would be knocked all to bits, You must yield yourselves up――no resistance avails.”―― “Don’t you wish you may get it?” says ALBERT OF WALES. With a jerk at his rein, and a stroke of his whip, Then the Prince turns his charger, and gives them the slip. “You have not got me yet,” says he: “follow who may, He must gallop who’s going to take me to-day! You’ll excuse my not stopping to talk of details―― I am off in a hurry!” says ALBERT OF WALES. Then in haste follows STAVELEY, and off gallops GRANT: “Hallo there!”――“Hold him, now!”――“Oh, I’ll stop him!”――“You Can’t!” Down the Hill the Prince goes, seeming little to reck That the Heir to the Throne can break only one neck. “It’s at this sort of speed that they carry the mails; Let who can overtake me!” cries ALBERT OF WALES. _Judy_, October 11, 1871. ―――― THE LATE LIGHT OF THE BAR. Choice of Stoke-upon-Trent, lo, KENEALY[36] confest, Pledged to see the foul wrongs of SIR ROGER redressed! Save his grievance and gingham he weapons had none; He went unabashed, and he went all alone, As though stainless in ’scutcheon, in fame without scar,―― Who e’er equalled for brass this late Light of the Bar? He stayed not for scoff, and he stopped not for groan; What were “Orders” to him, who takes orders from none? But ere he alighted at Westminster Gate, The House was well-filled, though the doctor came late; For the night’s blushing honours were shared, and at par, ’Twixt JOHN MITCHEL and him, this late Light of the Bar. So boldly he entered the High Commons’ hall, Among Whigs, Rads, Conservatives, alien all, While calm, cold, and cutting, the SPEAKER was heard, Through the silence, unbroken by cheer or by word, “In breach of the House-Standing-Order you are, Without introducers thus passing our Bar!” “I stuck to the Claimant: his claims were denied: Bench might beard me and Bar; Bar and Bench I defied! And now I am come, with this lost cause of mine, Like CROMWELL, to bid hence that ‘bauble’ of thine: Learn how wide-spread my fame, whom the much-wrongèd Gaikwâr Had retained,[37] had there not been that sinister Bar.” Dropped by all like hot poker, JOHN BRIGHT took him up―― “Not e’en from such lips should this House dash the cup. If WHALLEY has spirit to lend me a hand, By Stoke-upon-Trent’s new-made Member I’ll stand.” But DISRAELI moved, “Waive the rule, better far: Some will force their way over, some under, the Bar.” So the Order was waived, and unblushing in face He shook hands with the SPEAKER, swore, scowled at the Mace; ’Twas some time e’er the House could its business resume, What with Decency’s fret and Propriety’s fume: While an old stager whispered, “We’re best as we are; Stick to Orders, that serve, now and then, as a Bar.” He touched WHALLEY’S hand, who fought shy, it was clear, And he reached the Hall-door, with the cabs standing near; So light in the air his green gingham he swung; So light to his faithful four-wheeler he sprung―― “I have won! The trick’s done! To the knife it is war! See _The Englishman_!”――quoth this Ex-light of the Bar. There were posters (four-sheet) on _The Englishman’s_ van With its damp quires the newsboys they roared and they ran: Vollied dirt at M.P.’s, as at Judges, there flew. But the lost case of ORTON they would not review! So persistent to pelt, from the mark though so far, Was e’er Member like this late Light of the Bar! _Punch_, March 6, 1875. ―――― YOUNG STEPHEY CAVE.[38] O, young Stephey Cave is come out of the East, Through borders Levantine his steed was the beast! And save his grey goosequill he weapon had none; He rode all unharm’d, and he rode all alone. So renowned at accounts, so financially brave, There never was knight like the young Stephey Cave. He staid not for passport, he stopped not for Stone; He took the first steamer where train there was none; But ere he alighted at Ismail’s gate The Khedive was ruined; the banker came late, For a babe at accounts and a scripholding slave Had forestalled the proud mission of young Stephey Cave. So boldly he entered proud Ismail’s hall, Among Pashas and Agas, Effendis and all. Then spoke those Egyptians, ineffably bored, (For the poor craven Khedive said never a word,) “O, come ye to fleece us, or come ye to save, Or to prove us insolvent, thou young Stephey Cave?” “I long thought ye bankrupt――the truth ye denied; Loans swell like the Solway, but ebb like its tide, And now I am come with this ledger of mine To go through your figures. You dare not decline! There are countries in Europe as bankrupt, proud knave, Who’d gladly be tipped by the young Stephey Cave.” They threw down the records, bills, bonds, and such stuff; He tested the figures through sums on his cuff; He bent down to blush, and he got up to sigh, With a curl on his lip and disdain in his eye; He gave his right hand a most tragical wave―― “They’ve swindled thee proper,” said young Stephey Cave. One pull at the bell, and one crocodile’s tear, And they ope’d the hall-door, and the Khedive stood near. So plain to his Highness the plan that he showed, So strongly perceiving the same he avowed―― “We are saved! We are saved! spite of loan, bond, and knave!” “They’ll have sharp wits that beat us,” said young Stephey Cave. There was raving and stamping ’mong Pashas galore; Frenchmen, Germans, and Yankees, they cursed and they swore; There was hoping and waiting ’mong bondholders free, But the fruits of his mission ne’er did they see. So renowned at accounts, so financially brave, Have ye e’er heard of banker like young Stephey Cave? BENJAMIN D――――. _His Little Dinner_, 1876. ―――― YOUNG LOCHINVAR. _The True Story in Blank Verse._ Oh! young Lochinvar has come out of the West, Thro’ all the wide border his horse has no equal, Having cost him forty-five dollars at the market, Where good nags, fresh from the country, With burrs still in their tails are selling For a song; and save his good broad sword He weapon had none, except a seven-shooter Or two, a pair of brass knuckles, and an Arkansaw Toothpick in his boot, so, comparatively speaking, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone, Because there was no one going his way. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for Toll-gates; he swam the Erke River where ford There was none, and saved fifteen cents In ferriage, but lost his pocket-book, containing Seventeen dollars and a half, by the operation. Ere he alighted at the Netherby mansion He stopped to borrow a dry suit of clothes, And this delayed him considerably, so when He arrived the bride had consented――the gallant Came late――for a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen, and the guests had assembled. So, boldly he entered the Netherby Hall Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and Brothers-in-law and forty or fifty cousins; Then spake the bride’s father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom ne’er opened his head): “Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in anger, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?” “I long wooed your daughter, and she will tell you I have the inside track in the free-for-all For her affections! my suit you denied; but let That pass, while I tell you, old fellow, that love Swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, And now I am come with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one glass of beer; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to yours very truly.” The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaffed off the nectar and threw down the mug, Smashing it into a million pieces, while He remarked that he was the son of a gun From Seven-up and run the Number Nine. She looked down to blush, but she looked up again For she well understood the wink in his eye; He took her soft hand ere her mother could Interfere, “Now tread we a measure; first four Half right and left; swing,” cried young Lochinvar. One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door and the charger Stood near on three legs eating post hay; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, Then leaped to the saddle before her. “She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and spar, They’ll have swift steeds that follow”――but in the Excitement of the moment he had forgotten To untie the horse, and the poor brute could Only gallop in a little circus around the Hitching-post; so the old gent collared The youth and gave him the awfullest lambasting That was ever heard of on Canobie Lee; So dauntless in war and so daring in love, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? _Free Press Flashes_, 1883. ――――:o:―――― MARMION TRAVESTY. _Marmion_ was published in February, 1808, when the Duke of York was Commander-in-Chief of the British Army. A scandal in connection with this office gave rise to a very successful burlesque of _Marmion_, about which a few explanatory notes must be given. Frederic, Duke of York (the second son of George III., born in 1763), having proved his utter incapacity as a general in the field, during several disastrous campaigns in Flanders and Holland, was raised to the lucrative post of Commander-in-Chief of the Army. Notwithstanding that he was married to a daughter of the King of Prussia, he took several ladies under his protection, one of whom, Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke, was also married. The Duke, in addition to an unfortunate attachment to the pleasures of the table, was also an inveterate and unlucky gamester, consequently the allowance of £1,000 a year which he had promised to Mrs. Clarke was always in arrear. Unable to support the expensive establishment which she had started at the Duke’s instigations, Mrs. Clarke proceeded, with much business aptitude, to sell Commissions in the Army, to arrange promotions, and to effect transfers, pocketing very large sums for her services, which, in most cases, were crowned with success. Colonel Wardle, M.P. for Oakingham, brought the subject before the House of Commons, an enquiry was instituted, Mrs. Clarke was examined as a witness, and stated that she always found the Duke of York willing to promote the gentlemen whose names she recommended to his notice. The evidence taken before the Committee was so damaging to the character of the Duke that he resigned his office before the House had fully decided on its report. Sir David Dundas was appointed Commander-in-Chief, but he only held the position for a short time. As soon as the public indignation had in some degree subsided, the Duke of York resumed the office, having by the clever ruse of a temporary resignation, escaped the almost certain vote of censure of the House of Commons. Upon these circumstances was founded “_Marmion travestied_; a tale of Modern Times, by Peter Pry, Esq. London; Thomas Tegg, Cheapside. 1809.” The keynote of this amusing volume is given by the motto, taken from Gay:―― _’Tis Woman that seduces all mankind; By her we first are taught the wheedling arts; Her very eyes can cheat when most she’s kind; She tricks us of our money with our hearts._ The Travesty was inscribed by its author to “Walter Scott, Esq., Advocate.” Each canto is introduced by lines addressed either to Sir Francis Burdett, R. B. Sheridan, Sir David Dundas, Sir Robert Peel, or Lord Ellenborough. The poem consists of 277 pages, octavo, and deals very closely with the Clarke case, so that unless the reader has by him the Report containing the evidence taken before the House, some of the allusions would be unintelligible, especially as the names are only indicated by italics, and the volume is destitute of any explanatory notes. As one of the longest and most important burlesques in the language it could not be passed over, but unfortunately it offers few passages, which detached from the context, would interest the modern reader, and even these might be considered rather broad in their allusions. The parody it contains of Lady Heron’s song, _Lochinvar_, is entitled “The Bishop,” an allusion to the fact that the Duke of York was Prince-Bishop of Osnaburg, a post for which his high moral character admirably fitted him. THE BISHOP. O, a Bishop from _Surrey_ is come here to pray, Throughout our dominions no man is more gay; And save one in a corner, he favourites had none, For he was so moderate, he lov’d only one; So faithful in love and so fervent in _pray’rs_ That never did man better manage affairs. He staid not for cash――tho’ he ask’d for a loan, But he that cur’d tooth-aches, provided him none; And ere he’d neglect _things_ of love or of state He came without money, for fear he’d come late, For a laggard in love, is a fool, he declares, Unworthy of Cupid, or e’en state affairs. To worship his saint did he thus take a trip, And, quite pilgrim-like, with no cash in his scrip; When one of the vestals, the Bishop attacked, (It seems that the altar some sacrifice lack’d), Oh! come you with money, or come you with pray’rs, Or come you with vows that you’ll settle affairs? Without you have cash must your suit be denied, Love swells like the ocean but ebbs like its tide; So now I observe――and observe very true, That if you’ve no money, your kissing won’t do; Your _Grace_ need not take empty pockets upstairs, It is a _long-purse_ that must manage affairs. The saint then appear’d and the Bishop soon pray’d; His vows――but not one of the house-bills――were paid. She look’d up for more and she look’d down in vain, For searching his small clothes, they nought did contain. She wish’d to know how she should settle arrears, “Good morrow,” said he, and thus managed affairs. How sudden his exit――how wild was her look, For now his departure she scarcely could brook; While her sister did fret and her housemaid did fume, And her friends in a passion walk’d all round the room, And the servants too whisper’d, “She’s wrong, who e’er dares, To _meddle_ so much with a Bishop’s _affairs_.” One hint by the way――and one word in your ear If ever you wish to be _darling_ and _dear_―― Ne’er talk to a Bishop ’bout _mammon_, but know His _blessing’s_ enough, as the sequel will show; “She is false――then farewell――let her rail, but who cares; Another I’ll find that can manage affairs.” And to manage affairs is a business of art, A secret which prudence forbids to impart, A secret which e’en in the Cabinet reigns, For statesmen can always display ways and means; In love or in war whoe’er stratagem spares, Deserves not a blessing to prosper affairs. The Duke of York died early in 1827, to the great regret of all――his numerous creditors, and the nation erected an expensive monument to commemorate his military genius, and domestic virtues.[39] Perhaps the money might have been as well employed in the payment of some of his debts. ――――:o:―――― THE LADY OF THE LAKE. The success of _Marmion_ encouraged Scott to produce another poem, and in May, 1810, was published _The Lady of the Lake_, which met with equal favour. In the preface to his new poem Walter Scott made the following sensible remarks:―― “If a man is determined to make a noise in the world, he is as sure to encounter abuse and ridicule, as he who gallops furiously through a village, must reckon on being followed by the curs in full cry. Experienced persons know, that in stretching to flog the latter, the rider is very apt to catch a bad fall; nor is an attempt to chastise a malignant critic attended with less danger to the author. _On this principle I let parody, burlesque, and squibs, find their own level_; and while the latter hissed most fiercely, I was cautious never to catch them up, as school-boys do, to throw them back against the naughty boy who fired them off, wisely remembering that they are in such cases apt to explode in the handling.” The philosophical temperament of which he here boasts was soon put to a severe test, for George Colman the younger produced a parody in which every technical blemish in _The Lady of the Lake_ was mercilessly ridiculed, and every improbability maliciously exaggerated, whilst Scott’s long Notes on antiquarian and philological topics were imitated with very comical mock gravity. This clever satire was entitled, “THE LADY OF THE WRECK; _or Castle Blarneygig_,” by George Colman the younger, inscribed to the author of “_The Lady of the Lake_.” This poem was published by Longmans and Co., London, and was illustrated by some curious and very well executed little woodcuts. The scene of the story is laid in Ireland, and the author thus explains his reason for selecting that country:―― “Let not the reader, whose senses have been delightfully intoxicated by that Scottish _Circe_, the “_Lady of the Lake_,” accuse the present author of plagiary. The wild Irish and wild Caledonians bore a great resemblance to each other, in very many particulars; and two Poets, who have any “method in their madness,” may, naturally, fall into similar strains of wildness, when handling subjects equally wild and remote. ’Tis a wild world, my masters! The author of this work has merely adopted the style which a northern GENIUS has, of late, rendered the Fashion, and the _Rage_. He has attempted, in this instance, to become a maker of the _Modern-Antique_; a vendor of a new coinage, begrim’d with the ancient ærugo; a constructor of _the dear pretty sublime_, and _sweet little grand_; a writer of a short epick poem, stuff’d with romantick knick-knackeries, and interlarded with songs and ballads, _à la mode de_ Chevy Chase, Edom o’ Gordon, Sir Launcelot du Lake, &c., &c. How is such a writer to be class’d?” Scott’s descriptions of scenery, his love of sport, and chivalrous tone are all, in this burlesque, reduced to a very prosaic level; thus the lines in Canto I commencing:―― “The stag at eve had drunk his fill, Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill, And deep his midnight lair had made In lone Glenartney’s hazel shade.” are, by Colman, rendered thus:―― “The Pig, at eve, was lank, and faint, Where Patrick is the Patron Saint, And with his peasant Lord, unfed, Went, grunting, to their common bed: But when black night her sables threw Athwart the slough of Ballyloo, The deep-mouth’d thunder’s angry roar Re-bellow’d on the Ulster shore, And hailstones pelted, mighty big, The Towers of Castle Blarneygig. * * * * * And all the Vassals’ senses lay Drown’d in the whisky of the day. Still raged the storm!――still, records run, All slept in Blarneygig, save one, Lord of the Castle, and Domain, Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane.” In Canto II. of _The Lady of the Lake_ occurs the celebrated and often quoted BOAT SONG. Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! Honour’d and bless’d be the ever-green Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” * * * * * Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands, Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine! O that the rose-bud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! O that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem, Honour’d and bless’d in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from the deepmost glen, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!” In Colman’s version the Lord of Castle Blarneygig is the hero of the song:―― “Soon did the deep Cream Crutin twang, And, thus, as loud the chorus rang, The Vassals, at the Banquet, sang.” BANQUET SONG.[40] Hail our Chief! now he’s wet through with whiskey; Long life to the Lady come from the salt seas! Strike up, blind harpers! skip high to be frisky! For what is so gay as a bag-full of fleas? Crest of O’Shaughnashane!―― That’s a Potato, plain,―― Long may your root every Irishman know! Pats long have stuck to it, Long bid good luck to it; Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho! Our’s is an esculent lusty and lasting; No turnip nor other weak babe of the ground; Waxy or mealy, it hinders from fasting Half Erin’s inhabitants, all the year round. Wants the soil, where ’tis flung, Hog’s, cow’s, or horse’s dung, Still does the Crest of O’Shaughnashane grow; Shout for it, Ulster men, Till the bogs quake again! Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho! Drink, Paddies, drink to the Lady so shining! While flouret shall open, and bog-trotter dig, So long may the sweet Rose of Beauty be twining Around the potato of proud Blarneygig! While the plant vegetates, While whisky recreates, Wash down the root from the horns that o’erflow; Shake your shillalahs, boys! Screeching drunk, scream your joys! Whack for O’Shaughnashane! Tooleywhagg, ho! The Song in Canto III, commencing thus:―― The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder’s tread, Far, far, from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary! * * * * * is thus parodied:―― SONG OF THE BRIDEGROOM. Don’t, now, be after being coy; Sit still upon my lap, dear joy! And let us at our breakfast, toy, For thou art Wife to me, Judy! And I am bound, by wedlock’s chain, Thy humble sarvant to remain, Sir Tooleywhagg O’Shaughnashane, The Husband unto thee, Judy! * * * * * The skins of Wolves,――by me they bled,―― Are covers to our Marriage-Bed; Should one, in hunting, bite me dead, A widow thou wilt be, Judy! Howl at my wake! ’twill be but kind; And if I leave, as I’ve design’d, Some little Tooleywhaggs behind, They’ll sarve to comfort thee, Judy! Several other parts of this parody might be quoted, but unfortunately Mr. Colman’s muse was not quite so chaste as that of Walter Scott. ―――― The libretto of an Italian opera was founded upon _The Lady of the Lake_ (and such librettos are always burlesques on the original poem), besides which it has been frequently represented, in various forms, on the stage. One very amusing version, by Andrew Halliday, entitled “MOUNTAIN DHU; or, the Knight, the Lady, and the Lake,” was produced at the Adelphi Theatre, on December 26, 1866. This burlesque was full of parodies of Scotch songs with topical allusions. The leading parts were performed by Mrs. Alfred Mellon, Miss Furtado, and Paul Bedford, with J. L. Toole as Rhoderick Dhu. About the same time Miss M. Oliver produced “_The Lady of the Lake_ plaid in a new Tartan, an ephemeral burlesque,” by R. Reece, at the New Royalty Theatre, London, but this was decidedly inferior in literary merit to Mr. Halliday’s _Mountain Dhu_. ―――― “HAIL TO THE CHIEF!” (A_ Popular Pæan. After Sir Walter._) Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! Sharp be his axe, and resplendent its shine, Long may the light of his fire-flashing glances! Fervently flame in the front of our line! Heaven his strength renew, Still keep him stout and true, Gaily to battle, and greatly to grow; While all true Englishmen Send forth the shout agen, “Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!” Ours is no stripling, no Knight of the Carpet! Blooming at seventy, when shall he fade? Him, of the People, in Peace or in War, pet, Years cannot fetter, nor foes make afraid, Firm as the fixèd rock, Braving the tempest’s shock, Faster he roots him the fiercer it blow. England and Scotland then Echo his praise agen, “Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!” Far in Midlothian his pibroch pealed loudly, And Torydom’s shout to his slogan replied. Dauntless Dalkeith there confronted him proudly, But little the Veteran recked of his pride. “Fagots” all prostrate laid Long shall lament his raid, Think of “Old Gladstone” with wonder and woe: Buccleuch’s brave voting men Shake when they hear agen “Gladstone victorious! Ho-ieroe!” Shout, bearers, shout, for the Pride of the Party! Lift on your shoulders the evergreen Chief. Stalwart at seventy, stout, hale, and hearty, Who of his laurels will grudge him a leaf? And there’s a stripling gem, Worthy the ancient stem―― Middlesex missed him, but Leeds won’t say “No.” Loud shall all England then Shout for the pair agen, “Gladstone and Gladstone’s boy! Ho-ieroe!” _Punch_, April 24, 1880. ――――:o:―――― The following lines are in imitation of the opening of Canto III., entitled _The Gathering_. They are _apropos_ of Mr. Gladstone’s visit to Scotland in August, 1884, during the agitation about the Franchise Bill. RAISING THE “FIERY CROSS.” (_Some way after Sir Walter Scott_). Time rolls his ceaseless course. That fight of yore, When the Great Earl was beaten to his knee, When Gladstone’s rhetoric rolled from shore to shore, Herald and harbinger of victory, Is not yet blotted from man’s memory. How few, how weak and withered of their force The Tory remnant, which all men might see Like stranded wrecks. The tide returning hoarse Sets them afloat again! Time rolls its ceaseless course. There yet live those who can remember well When last the Liberal Chief his bugle blew; When county broad and borough big, as well As far Midlothian’s heart, the signal knew, And fast the faithful clan around him drew. And now again his warning note is wound, Again the banner floats as then it flew; Whilst now the clamorous war-pipes shrilly sound, And now the Fiery Cross gleams like a meteor round. The Summer Sun’s effulgent hue Gilds Scotia’s skies of bluest blue; Autumn’s at hand, but a brisk breeze, Born of conflicting policies, Blows o’er the land, and leisure coy, And sport’s supreme soul-stirring joy, Are not for Members sorely prest, The prospect of unbroken rest In dull uncertainty still lies Far off, ’neath drear December’s skies. The Peers have crossed the People’s right, And there is bound to be a fight! Against the ermine and the lawn The proletariat blade is drawn, Members must leave the mountain’s side, The trout stream’s swift and silvery glide; To raise the sword and shout the cry Amidst the roused democracy. Good-bye to grouse, to health’s fair flush, The pheasant’s whirr, the salmon’s rush, War’s raven croaks, the cushat dove Hushes her notes of peace and love. No thought of peace or Autumn rest Hath harbour in the Chieftain’s breast. With unsheathed broadsword in his hand, He’ll pace the war-awakened land. Strife’s rising he has heard and laid His hand upon his ready blade, His foot’s a rock. His vassals’ care Midlothian promptly will prepare, Where he aforetime lessons taught With deep and deathful meaning fraught; Where they shall meet and whence abroad The Cross of Fire shall take its road. The land would hear his vocal blasts, And see the flashing glance he casts: Such glance the mountain-eagle throws, When high among the peaks and snows He spreads his pinions on the wind, And, like an albatross reclined Mid-air, with his broad shadow hushes The chirpers of the brakes and bushes. ’Tis all prepared! Firm as a rock, And bold to brave the stormiest shock, With kindling eye, with floating plaid, Wide waving hair and flashing blade, The Chieftain stands, heroic, grim, Of dauntless front, and sinewy limb. The Cross is shaped, and held on high; The Chieftain of the eagle eye Rears it aloft with clutch of steel, Whilst far resounds his fierce appeal:―― “When flits this Cross from man to man, Vich-Gladstone’s summons to his clan, Woe to the clansman who shall view This symbol, loved of followers true, Forgetful that when last the blue Beheld its blaze its beaconing drew Beaconsfield’s glory low! Deserter of his Chieftain’s trust, He shall be scattered like the dust, And from all loyal gatherings thrust, Each clansman’s execration just Shall doom him wrath and woe!” He stops;――the word his followers take With forward step and fiery shake Of naked brands that lightnings make, And clattering shields that echoes wake; And first in murmur low, Then like a Demonstration’s course That Hyde parkwards doth his in force, And purple shouts itself, and hoarse, Burst from that thousand-throated source, “Woe to such traitors, woe!” The Chiefs grey locks defiant wave, The Tories scarce that Cross may brave; The exulting Rads hurrah afar―― They know the voice of Gladstone’s War! _Punch_, August 30, 1884. ――――:o:―――― ROKEBY. _Rokeby_ was the next important poem produced by Scott,――it appeared early in 1813, and was quickly followed by a burlesque, entitled “JOKEBY; _a Burlesque on Rokeby_. A Poem in Six Cantos, by an Amateur of Fashion.” To which are added _Occasional Notes_, by our most popular characters. London, printed for Thomas Tegg, 1813. The notes are in imitation of the style of learned commentators, and are signed by Sheridan, Kemble, Colman, and others. The only portion of this now-forgotten parody which is worth quoting, is a song founded on that in Canto III. _Rokeby_, commencing:―― “O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there, Would grace a summer queen.” SONG. Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay, The pride of Dyott Street, And though in dwellings low they stay, Yet snug is their retreat. And as I walked thro’ Russel-square, To see what I could see, A fair one from a window there Was singing merrily _Chorus_―― “Oh, Giles’s lads are brave and gay, The pride of Dyott Street; I’d rather with my Cymon stray, Than live in country seat.” If, fair, thou wou’dst for me agree, To leave this house and place, Thou first must guess what boys we are, Who sweet St. Giles’s grace. And if thou can’st this riddle tell, As tell you may with ease, Then shalt thou enter soon our cell, As merry as you please. _Chorus_―― Yet sung she “Giles’s lads are gay, The pride of Dyott Street; I’d rather with my Cymon stray, Than live in country seat.” “I guess you by your awkward feet, And by your stoop to boot; I guess you for a taylor meet, To make a marriage _suit_.” “A taylor, madam, bends his knees, And not for sake of prayer; His legs are always fix’d at ease, And mine are here and there.” _Chorus_―― Yet sung she, “Giles’s lads are gay, The pride of Dyott Street; I wish I could with Cymon stray, And see his snug retreat.” “By the fine compliments I’ve met, And by your gallant airs, I guess you for a ’Squire’s valet, Who for him lies and swears.” “No servant I to any Squire, Nor yet a place have I, And when that trials hard require, I can both swear and lie.” _Chorus_―― And, oh! though Giles’s lads are gay, The pride of Dyott Street, Yet never lass with me shall stray, To see our snug retreat. “Lady, a shameful life I lead, A shameful death I’ll die; The man who labours hard for bread Were better spouse than I. And when I meet my comrades rare, In places distant far; We all forget what once we were, Nor think on what we are.” _Chorus_―― Yet Giles’s lads are bold and gay, The pride of Dyott Street; And ever true and merry they, Within their snug retreat. _Jokeby_ went through many editions, although to a modern reader it seems almost destitute of humour or talent. It has been attributed to John Roby, and also to Thomas Tegg, its publisher, whilst the Editor of _Parodies_ copied the following note from a copy of _Jokeby_, which had belonged to the late Shirley Brooks, Editor of _Punch_:――“This was written by the Brothers Smith (of Rejected Addresses). I picked it up at a bookstall near Baker Street. The work is not good for much, but I suppose is now scarce, so this may as well be kept.――_Shirley Brooks_, 17th October, 1873.” But it seems most improbable that this poor imitation should have been the work of either of the Smiths, whose admirable parody of Scott in the _Rejected Addresses_, which was given on page 72, shows what they could do in that way. There was also _Smokeby_ a Parody of the same poem, which appeared in an early number of the _Ephemerides_, a literary serial, published in Edinburgh in 1813. _Rokeby the Second_ is the title of a long, and rather dull, parody which appeared in _The Satirist_, of March. 1813. The events recounted in the poem are supposed to have occurred immediately after the dreadful fight between Tom Cribb and Molineux. The chief aim of this production was to ridicule Scott for the inordinate length of the notes to his poems, for in a preface entitled “An Essay on the Art of Book Making,” the author remarks: “It must be known to everyone, that in modern bookmaking, little depends on the _poetry_ of a _poem_. The notes are the thing on which success depends. In these, difficult as it may seem to come up to the authors of Childe Harold and Rokeby, I am vain enough to think I shall not be found wanting.” Accordingly, the notes are very long (as well as rather broad), and have very little connection indeed with the parody itself. The Satirist, _or Monthly Meteor_ (London), first appeared on October 1, 1807, and was discontinued in 1814. It contained numerous political parodies, and with each number there was a large coloured folding cartoon. The tone of the _Satirist_ was decidedly Tory, and both in its cartoons and its letterpress the Whigs were roundly abused and ridiculed. The parts published December, 1808, and January, 1809, contained two articles entitled “_Second Sight_,” which professed to be a review of a new poem entitled “MACARTHUR, _an Epic Poem_, in six Cantos, by Walter Scott, Esq.” This review not only gave the plot of the supposed work, but also quoted several extracts from it, such as the following:―― “And every eye was turn’d to see What such a goodly smell might be! When, lo! upon the sideboard plac’d, With mottoes quaint and scutcheons grac’d, And crest erect on high; In noble dish of china-ware, Adorn’d with gold and pictures rare, Stood, and perfumed the neighbouring air, A lofty pigeon-pie! And round its edge, in _bas relieve_, The curious gazer might perceive S.W. and P.I.! * * * * * Knows well, no doubt the curious sage, And poet’s mind, and head of age, What such devices mean; Who made this pie, of high renown, A baker was, of Derby town, His sire reap’d beards at Horsleydown, An honest wight, I ween; His sister a damsel of Etwall-ash, His mother a matron of Enfield-wash, And laundress to the Queen! And long could he trace his ancestry, Too long for my weak minstrelsy.” * * * * * ――――:o:―――― VALENTINES, _A Fragment._ … “It was then proposed that we should each of us compose a poem for the next St. Valentine’s Day. The idea was readily adopted, and the MINSTREL, who has a knack of pouring the unpremeditated lay, after a very short prelude on the bagpipes, sang the following irregular lines, accompanying his voice with great taste on that expressive instrument:―― I who, of Norham’s castled steep, And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot’s mountains lone; The battled towers, the Donjon keep, The loophole grates where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, Built of the thickest stone:―― Of stalworth knight and champion grim With square-turn’d joints and strength of limb; Of Haco’s floating banner trim; Of Wallace wight, and Martin Swart, Who came on baker Simnel’s part; Of abbots, monks and jovial friars, Of simple nuns and purblind priors, Of heralds, pursuivants, and squires; And wanton lady’s charms; Of painted tabards, proudly showing Gules, argent, or, or azure glowing, And him, that Satirist, so knowing, Of whom we still make some account, Sir David Lindsay, of the mount, Lord lion king at arms:―― * * * * * I, who have sung of all of these;―― And eke of that same cuckold lord, Sir Hugh the Heron bold, Baron of Twissel and of Ford, And Captain of the Hold. Who led the Falcon knight to the deas, And posted him full high With a fresh broach’d pipe of Malvoisie And a savoury venison pie: From the bare north, my distant home A border minstrel, lo! I come; Who much, I ween, have pored On many a huge unwieldy tome Imprinted at the antique dome, Of Caxton, or de Worde: To dear St. Valentine no thrush, Sings livelier from a Springtide bush; Then pay me half-a-crown a line, And I will be thy Valentine.” This Valentine parody appeared in _The Satirist_ for February, 1810, with another poem imitating the style of M. G. Lewis. In January, 1811, there was another long parody of Walter Scott, in the same journal. It was entitled _The Ovation of the Empty Chair_, and commenced:―― O that I had the muse I wot, The buxom muse of Walter Scott, Whose wand’ring verse and vagrant rhymes, Recite the tales of other times; Then should that simple muse declare, _Th’ ovation of the empty chair_. This parody relates to the imprisonment in the Tower of Sir Francis Burdett, the Radical Member for Westminster, and father of the present Lady Burdett Coutts. ――――:o:―――― On the death of Mr. Henry James Pye, the Poet Laureate, in 1813, and during the discussion which ensued as to his probable successor, _The Satirist_ published a collection of applications for the post. These applications (supposed to have been written by the most eminent poets of the day), contained specimens of such odes and addresses as they would have been prepared to manufacture in praise of the monarch, and his family, on appointment to the office. The authors thus parodied were Hannah More, George Colman, Lord Byron, W. Wordsworth, Thomas Campbell, Robert Southey, Walter Scott, and George Crabbe. The notes which accompanied the parodies were more interesting than the poems themselves, of which, indeed, the only one which would be worth quoting was a parody on Robert Southey. That on Walter Scott was poor stuff, and most of the others are quite out of date. ――――:o:―――― WALTER SCOTT, ESQ., TO HIS PUBLISHERS. Be not discouraged――gentlemen, Tho’ criticism has run me down―― Tho’ burlesque has assum’d my pen, And Plagiary stole my renown―― Give me more cash――I’ll take more pains, And far surpass my former strains In Metaphor and thought. My fancy too shall soar so high, That burlesque writers I’ll defy, And critics set at naught. Successful in my first essay, My friends began to greet―― My _First_, entitled the _Last_ Lay―― No minstrel sung more sweet―― Then envy slept and I became, At once a Poet of great fame; For much applause I had―― Proud of the offspring of my pen, I was resolved to write agen, And to my laurels add. My _Marmion_ I then gave the town, In strains energetic and bold; The critics were ready to own, The battle sublimely was told. But one _Peter Pry_, His humour must try, To burlesque the poem I’d written; To me it did seem A wonderful theme, For any to exercise wit on. Resolved another work to make, I wrote the _Lady of the Lake_; The Lady was so much the rage, That she was brought upon the stage; But grief to tell! The younger Colman must think fit, (In order to display his wit) My Lady, who the Lake did deck, To make _the Lady of the_ WRECK; Nor was this all――for――oh, for shame! Presumptuous Plagiary, I wot, Stole all my sentiments and plot, And made a _novel_ of the same. I’ll nought of _Don Roderic_ say, For that, sirs, had never fair play And well the poor author may rail In oblivion Don Roderic lay; For all must allow, There wer’nt puffs enow, And how could it then have a sale? I then my dear _Rokeby_ devised―― By MURRAY ’twas well advertised; For he made a boast In the _Times_ and the _Post_, (And many the puffs too believed) That he the _first copies_ received―― But oh my unfortunate Rokeby; Who e’er of a parody dream’t, To bring thee thus into comtempt, Metamorphosing thee into JOKEBY. When I saw――oh, how great was my passion, The bills upon Edinburgh wall―― Fit dress for this writer of fashion[41]―― I sent men to cover them all. Now, gentlemen, as I have hinted, I wish a new work to be printed―― Another’s already prepared, Then don’t let your money be spared. I hate in my price to be stinted―― ’Tis such――it will baffle all wit, ’Tis such that no burlesque can hit; ’Tis such so sublime and so grand―― The critics will not understand. And I long――ah, I long now to show ’em, The charms of my forthcoming Poem. From ACCEPTED ADDRESSES, or _Præmium Poetarum_. London, Thomas Tegg, 1813. ――――:o:―――― “THE POETIC MIRROR, _or the Living Bards of Britain_,” is the title of a small volume published by Longmans & Co., London, in 1816. This contains poems which are ascribed, in the index, to Lord Byron, Walter Scott, W. Wordsworth, James Hogg, S. T. Coleridge, J. Wilson, and Robert Southey. In the introduction the Editor remarks that he claims no merit save that of having procured from the authors the various Poems contained in the volume, and he leads one to believe that the names affixed to the Poems represent the real authors. The Editor of _Parodies_ purchased this little old book in March, 1879, and by a singular coincidence he picked up in the same shop “_The Altrive Tales_,” by the Ettrick Shepherd (London, 1832). This contains a memoir of the author, James Hogg, written by himself. In it Hogg thus describes the origin of _The Poetic Mirror_: “My next literary adventure was the most extravagant of any. I took it into my head that I would collect a poem from every living author in Britain, and publish them in a neat and elegant volume, by which I calculated I might make my fortune. I applied to Southey, Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyd, Morehead, Pringle, Paterson, and several others, all of whom sent me poems. Wordsworth reclaimed his, Byron and Rogers both promised, but neither of them ever performed. Walter Scott absolutely refused to furnish me with even one verse, which I took exceedingly ill, as it frustrated my whole plan. I began, with a heavy heart, to look over the pieces I had received, and lost all hope of the success of my project. After considering them well, I fancied that I could write a better poem than any that had been sent to me, and this so completely in the style of each poet, that it should not be known but for his own production. It was this conceit that suggested to me the idea of “The Poetic Mirror, or the Living Bards of Britain.” I wrote nearly all of it in three weeks, and in less than three months it was published. The second poem in the volume, namely, the Epistle to R―――― S―――― is not mine. It was written by Mr. Thomas Pringle, and was not meant as an imitation of Scott’s manner, although in the contents it is ascribed to his pen. I do not set any particular value on any poem in the work by myself, except “The Gude Greye Katte,” which was written as a caricature of “The Pilgrims of the Sun,” and some others of my fairy ballads. It is greatly superior to any of them.” It is only just to the memory of James Hogg to add that the poems in the _Poetic Mirror_ cannot be termed _Parodies_; they are rather imitations of style, and all the authors mentioned are treated with forbearance; Wordsworth, alone comes in for some slight criticism, called forth by his intense egotism, and offensive self-assertion, of which Hogg, in his memoir, gives some amusing instances. Besides the Epistle addressed to Southey, in the name of Walter Scott, there is a long poem, in three Cantos, entitled “_Wat o’ the Cleuch_,” which would pass very well as a minor poem by Walter Scott himself. In style it somewhat resembles _Marmion_, whilst _Lochinvar_ was evidently in the author’s mind when he wrote the following sketch of his robber hero:―― WALSINGHAME’S SONG. O heard ye never of Wat o’ the Cleuch? The lad that has worrying tikes enow, Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew, And that’s the cheer of Wat o’ the Cleuch. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Woe’s my heart for Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch sat down to dine With two pint stoups of good red wine; But when he looked they both were dry; O poverty parts good company! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! O for a drink to Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch came down the Tine To woo a maid both gallant and fine; But as he came o’er by Dick o’ the side He smell’d the mutton and left the bride. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! What think ye now of Wat o’ the Cleuch? Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to steal, He wanted milk, and he wanted veal; But ere he wan o’er the Beetleston brow He hough’d the calf, and eated the cow! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Well done, doughty Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch came here to fight, But his whittle was blunt, and his nag took fright, And the braggart he did what I dare not tell, But changed his cheer at the back of the fell. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! O for a croudy to Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch kneel’d down to pray, He wist not what to do or to say; But he pray’d for beef, and he pray’d for bree, A two-hand spoon and a haggies to pree. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! That’s the cheer for Wat o’ the Cleuch! But the devil is cunning as I heard say, He knew his right, and haul’d him away; And he’s over the border and over the heuch, And off to hell with Wat o’ the Cleuch. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Lack-a-day for Wat o’ the Cleuch! But of all the wights in poor Scotland, That ever drew bow or Border brand, That ever drove English bullock or ewe, There never was thief like Wat o’ the Cleuch. Wat o’ the Cleuch! Wat o’ the Cleuch! Down for ever with Wat o’ the Cleuch! ――――:o:―――― “Warreniana; _with Notes Critical and Explanatory_, by the Editor of a Quarterly Review,” is the title of a small volume of imitations, published by Longmans and Co., London, in 1824. The Editor signs his prefatory remarks “W.G.” but there is every reason to believe that the work was written by a Barrister, Mr. William Frederic Deacon, who died in, or about 1845. The motto on the title-page gives the key-note to the motive of the poems, “_I have even been accused of writing Puffs for Warren’s Blacking_,” LORD BYRON. Warren’s Blacking inspires each composition, but whether seriously or in jest, can be best judged by the following extract from the dedication to the King: “Deign then, oh best of Princes, to justify the Editor’s appeal, that posterity may learn how Warren enlarged the bounds of science, and his Sovereign bowed approval. Long after the trophies of a Wellington shall have floated down the Lethe of oblivion, the name of Guelph, eternised by the gratitude of Warren, shall flourish to after ages, the Medici of modern art. That as yet this mighty manufacturer has lived comparatively unnoticed, he casts no reflection on your Majesty; he resigns that office to his Blacking, but feels with the sensitiveness of neglected genius, that intellect, like the oak, is but tardy in the attainment of its honours.” This dedication is followed by an introduction stating that Robert Warren had lately engaged all the intellect of England in his behalf, each author being required to furnish a modicum of praise in the style to which he was best adapted. The result being a collection of writings attributed to Washington Irving, William Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Robert Southey, Lord Byron, S. T. Coleridge, Sir Walter Scott, and other authors of less note. The imitation of Scott is entitled:―― THE BATTLE OF BRENTFORD GREEN. “_In the autumn of 1818, a serious affray took place between those illustrious rivals, Warren, and Day and Martin. The parties, as I learn from the black litter record of the fray, met at Brentford, and after a ‘well-foughtenfield,’ victory was decided in favour of the former Chieftain._” The first Canto describes a Wassail in the banquetting-hall of Robert Warren. The second Canto, which is the better of the two, is entitled:―― THE COMBAT. ’Tis merry――’tis merry on Brentford Green, When the holiday folk are singing, When the lasses flaunt with lightsome mien, And the Brentford bells are ringing; Well armed in stern unyielding mood. High o’er that Green the Warren stood; A burly man was he, Girt round the waist with ’kerchief blue, And clad in waistcoat dark of hue, And thick buff jerkin gay to view, And breeches of the knee: Beside him stood his trusty band, With hat on head, and club in hand, Loud shouting to the fight; Till answering shrill, street, alley, lane, O’er hill and heather, wood and plain, Sent forth the deepened sounds again, With voice of giant might. Charge, Warren, charge; yon battle Green, Glitters afar with silvery sheen, The lightning of the storm; Where bands of braggarts bluff in mien, With ragged Irishmen are seen, Dreadful and drunken all, I ween, A phalanx fierce to form: Saint George! it was a gallant sight, To ken beneath the morning light, The shifting lines sweep by; In mailed and measured pace they sped, The earth gave back their hollow tread, ’Till you mote think the charnelled dead Were howling to the sky. “Hark, rolls the thunder of the drum, The foe advance――they come, they come! Lay on them,” quoth the Day; “God for the right! on Brentford Heath, Our bugles stern and stormy breath, Summons to victory or to death; Hurrah then, for the fray!” Hurrah, hurrah! from rear to flank, In vengeance rung along each rank; And the red banners (formed by hap Of two old shirts stitched flap to flap)[42] Waved lordlier at the cry: ’Till every proud and painted scrap, Shivered like plume in ’prentice cap, Or cloud in winter sky. The Warren first this squad espied, Ranged man to man in ruffian pride, And to each warrior at his side In vaunting phrase began, “Rush on, ye ragamuffins, rush, All Brentford to a blacking brush, My foeman leads the van.” On rushed each lozel to the fight, Ruthless as flood from mountain height, The bludgeons clattered fierce and fast, And dealt destruction as they past, While high as some tall vessel’s mast, Warren o’erlooked the shock; Thence bore him back with might and main; Brickbats and bludgeons fell like rain, Stones, sticks and stumps, all, all in vain, He stemmed them like a rock; His foeman chief with wary eye, The flickering of the fight could spy, And shouted as his bands he led, To Pat O’Thwackum at their head, “Thwackum, press on――ne’er mind your scars, Press on――they yield――and oh, my stars! Each nose is bleeding fast; Strike, strike,――their skulls like walnuts cracking For Day, for Martin, and his blacking, The battle cannot last.” Vain charge! the Warren dauntless stood, Though ankle deep flowed seas of blood, Till Thwackum fierce towards him flies, His breast with choler glows, Rage flashes from his mouth and eyes, And claret from his nose. The foemen meet――they thump, they thwack! Hark! burst the braces on their back! And, hark! their skulls in concert crack! And, hark! their cudgels clatter, whack! With repercussive shocks: See, see they fall――down, down they go, Warren above, his foe below, While high o’er all ascends the cry Of “Warren,” “Warren,” to the sky, And “Thwackum” to the stocks. Oh! for a blast of that tin horn, Through London streets by newsmen borne, That tells the wondering host How murder, rape, or treason dread, Deftly concocted, may be read In Courier, Times, or Post; Then in dramatic verse and prose, The martial muse should tell How Warren triumphed o’er his foes, How Thwackum fought and fell, And how, despite his cartel, Day Hied him, like recreant, from the fray. ’Tis done――the victors all are gone, And fitfully the sun shines down On many a bruised and burly clown, The flower of whose sweet youth is mown, To blossom ne’er again; For e’en as grass cut down is hay, So flesh when drubbed to death, is clay, As proved each hind who slept that day On Brentford’s crimson plain. Sad was the sight, for Warren’s squad Bravely lay sprawling on the sod; They scorned to turn their tails,――for why? They had no tails to turn awry, So dropped each where he stood. First Ned of Greenwich kissed the ground, Then Figgins from Whitechapel pound, Mark Wiggins from Cheapside, Whackum and Thwackum from Guildhall, The two O’Noodles from Blackwall, Noggins the Jew from London Wall, And Scroggins from Saint Bride: Tim Bobbin tumbled as he rose To join the motley chase, Joe Abbot, spent by Warren’s blows Lay snug ensconced, and Danson’s nose Was flattened to his face: Stubbs too, of Brentford Green the rose, Would have essayed to pour On one――on all, his wrath red hot As blacksmith’s anvil, had he not Been hanged the day before. Illustrious brave if muse like mine May bid for aye, your memories shine In fame’s recording page; Each wounded limb, each fractured head, Albeit tacked up in honour’s bed, Shall live from age to age; And still on Brentford Green while springs The daisy, while the linnet sings Her valentine to May, The sympathising hind shall tell Of those who fought and those who fell, At Brentford’s grim foray. L’Envoy to the Reader. Now, gentles, fare ye well, my rede Hath reached an end, nor feel I need To add to Warren’s fame, my meed Of laudatory rhymes; Far loftier bards his praise rehearse, And prouder swells his daily verse In Chronicle or Times. Enough for me on summer day, To pipe some simple oaten lay, Of goblin page or border fray, To rove in thought through Teviotdale, Where Melrose wanes a ruin pale, (The sight and sense with awe attacking,) Or skim Loch Katherine’s burnished flood, Or wade through Grampian Moor and mud, In boots baptized with WARREN’S BLACKING. ――――:o:―――― In 1822 a volume of Poems was published by Hurst, Robinson and Co., of London, and in Edinburgh by Archibald Constable and Co., entitled “THE BRIDAL OF CAÖLCHAIRN, _and other Poems_, by Sir Walter Scott, Bart.” In the same year another edition was published by T. Hookham, Old Bond Street, London, on the title-page of which the work was said to be “by John Hay Allan, Esq.” The volume was dedicated to the Duke of Argyle, it had no preface, nor any explanation of the author’s impudent attempt to pass off his work upon the public as that of Sir Walter Scott. The poems are of a serious nature, and would not have been mentioned here, had it not been for the hoax as to their authorship. ――――:o:―――― _Rejected Odes_, edited by Humphrey Hedgehog, Esq. (London, J. Johnston, 1813), contains an imitation of Scott’s poetry, but it is not worth quoting. When George IV, visited Scotland in August, 1822, Scott wrote an imitation of an old Jacobite ditty, _Carle, now the King’s come_, it was in two parts, and was published as a broadside. This was parodied, under the title of _Sawney, now the King’s come_, of which it is very difficult now to obtain a copy. In the third volume of the works of the late Thomas Love Peacock (London, R. Bentley and Son, 1875) there is a _Border Ballad_ written in imitation of Sir Walter Scott. This was one of the “Paper Money Lyrics” which were written by Peacock in 1825, and published in 1837, it has little to interest modern readers. Several other Parodies of Scott have appeared in _Punch_, in addition to those here reprinted. One, entitled _The Battle of Wimbledon_, which appeared on July 19, 1862, consists principally of an enumeration of the most famous shots amongst the Volunteers of the day. Another, _The Nile Song_, June 6, 1863, in imitation of “Hail to the Chief,” celebrates the announcement made by Sir R. Murchison, at the Royal Geographical Society that Messrs. Speke and Grant had discovered the sources of the Nile. A few other Parodies of detached passages of Scott’s poems are to be found in the early numbers of Blackwood’s Magazine, some of which were written by Professor Wilson (Christopher North.) Many of Scott’s novels have been dramatised, and also burlesqued, these will be enumerated when dealing with his prose works. It may here be mentioned, however, that a burlesque of _Kenilworth_, written by R. Reece and H. B. Farnie is now being performed at the Avenue Theatre, London. [Illustration] PARODIES OF SOME SCOTCH SONGS. THE LONDON UNIVERSITY. March, march, dustmen and coal-heavers, Doff your great castors for brims of less border, Assume trencher caps in the room of your old beavers, And march off to school at great Intellect’s order; For many a poet, who now does not know it, Professor, historian, logician and great wit, Mathematician, and famed rhetorician, Shall start from the dust-cart, or rise from the coal-pit. March, march, &c. Come from your shop-boards, ye tailors so nimble, Come forth, ye Crispins, from out your snug stalls, No more waste your time on your needle and thimble, Nor trust to your lapstones, your lasts, and your awls, Big wigs are debating, professors are waiting, To make ye all gentlemen, linguists, and great men, Turn tinkers and tailors to soldiers and sailors, And qualify dunces and asses for statesmen. Then march, march, &c. From _The Spirit of the Age_, 1829 The London University was founded mainly through the exertions of Lord Brougham, and Thomas Campbell, the Poet. It was opened in October, 1828, and was for some time the object of great opposition and ridicule. It was said that every sweep was going to have a college education, and a song, entitled _The Literary Dustman_, became exceedingly popular:―― At sartin schools they make boys write Their alphabet on sand, sirs, So I thought dust would do as vell, And larnt it out of hand, sirs; Took in the “Penny Magazine,” And Johnson’s _Dixionary_, And all the Perio-di-calls To make me _literary_. They calls me Adam Bell, ’tis clear, As Adam vos the fust man,―― And by a co-in-side-ance queer, Vy, I’m the fust of Dustmen! ―――― SMOKING’S QUITE REGULAR. “_When pigs run wild about the streets, with straw in their mouths, it is a sign of rain._”――_Old Saying._ Smoke! smoke! Arcade and College-green, Light your cigars, for smoking’s quite regular. Smoke! smoke! shop boys and chimney sweeps; Smoking’s the fashion from _gemman_ to _higgler_. Blow! blow! smokers and pugilists; Let there be piping and blowing no matter how. Blow! blow! zephyrs and organists, Piping and blowing there’s nothing else thought of now. Puff! puff! that’s doing what is right. Puff till you’ve blinded his majesty’s lieges, Puff! puff! bakers and pastry-cooks, _Bacca-pipe_ odour each nostril besieges. Spit! spit! all who love _bacca_ smoke, For it produces great expectoration; Spit! spit! smokers and cook wenches, Let there be spitting without a cessation. Pipe! pipe! pipers and naughty brats; Here end my verse, my muse she is rather hoarse, Quid! quid! what do you think of it? Excellent metre! I know you all cry of course. From WISEHEART’S NEW COMIC SONGSTER, Dublin (about 1832, when smoking was first becoming prevalent). ――――:o:―――― “OH, WHERE, AND OH WHERE.” (Written by Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, “On the Marquis of Huntly’s departure for the Continent with his Regiment in 1799.”) Oh where, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone? He’s gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble, till he come safely home. Oh where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay? He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid _Spey_, And many a blessing followed him, the day he went away. Oh what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear? A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across his manly breast, that yet shall wear a star. Suppose, ah suppose that some cruel cruel wound Should pierce your Highland Laddie, and all your hopes confound! The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye! But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonny bounds, His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name resounds. ――――:o:―――― PUNCH’S SERENADE. Oh where, and oh where, is my Harry Brougham gone?―― He’s gone to see the French, and Philippe upon his throne, And it’s oh! in my heart, I wish him safe at home. Oh where, and oh where, does my Harry Brougham dwell?―― He dwells at Cannes in bonny France, and likes it very well; But recollect ’tis not the Cann’s where gravy soup they sell. In what clothes, in what clothes, is your Harry Brougham clad?―― His hunting coat’s of velvet green, his trowsers are of plaid; And it’s oh! in my heart, he can’t look very bad. Suppose, and suppose, that your Harry Brougham should die!―― Dog _Toby_ would weep over him, and _Punch_ himself would cry: But it’s oh! in our hearts, that we hope he will not die. _Punch_, October 1846. Lord Brougham went to his château at Cannes.――Passing through Paris, he, as usual, paid his respects to Louis Philippe. _Life of Lord Brougham._ ―――― SONG OF THE SLIGHTED SUITOR. Oh where, and oh where, has my learned counsel gone? He’s gone to the Queen’s Bench, where a case is coming on, And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish my case his own. What fee, and what fee did your learned counsel clutch? Five guineas on his brief he did not think too much;―― And it’s oh! if he’s a barrister, I wish he’d act as such. In what court, in what court is your learned counsel found? I cannot catch him anywhere, of all he goes the round;―― And it’s oh! in my heart, that to one I wish him bound. What excuse, what excuse can your learned counsel make? None at all, none at all, but his head he’ll gravely shake, And it’s oh! in my heart, that the fee he’s sure to take. _Punch_, 1848. ―――― THE GREAT KILT REFORM. Oh where, and oh where, is your Highland Laddie gone? Oh, he’s gone into the hospital, with pains in every bone; And it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d breeks put on! What clothes, oh what clothes, did your Highland Laddie wear? Oh, his shoulders were well covered, but his legs were left all bare; And it’s oh! how that part must have felt the wintry air! Oh why, and oh why, was your Highland Lad not dress’d? Oh, some people say with half his clothes the Highlander looks best; But it’s oh! in my heart, that I wish he’d wear the rest! Suppose that his dress, now your Highland lad reform, Oh, I think ’twould be more decent, and I know ’twould be more warm; And it’s oh! in my heart, that I hope he will reform. Suppose and suppose that they make your Highland lad Wear decent coat and trowsers, ’stead of kilt and tartan plaid? Then it’s oh! in my heart, but just should’nt I be glad! Suppose and suppose that they keep the costume old; Oh! this winter’s so severe, I’m sure he’ll catch his death of cold; And it’s oh! bless my heart! how my Laddie would be sold! _Diogenes_, p. 22, Vol. 3, 1854. ―――― WANDERING WILLIE. Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie gone? He’s gone to fight in Scotland for Radicals forlorn, And it’s oh, Greenwich town is left alone to mourn. Oh where, and oh where, has our Wand’ring Willie been? He’s been down into Scotland to sweep the Tories clean, And it’s oh, what on earth does our Wand’ring Willie mean? Oh why, and oh why, did our Wand’ring Willie roam So far from Greenwich Hospital, so far from Oxford’s dome? For he knows in his heart he had better stop at home. In what way, in what way, was our Wand’ring Will addressed? As if he of all statesmen was wisest, truest, best, And it’s oh, he must feel this was but a sorry jest. Oh what, and oh what, does our Wand’ring Willie need? ’Tis hoping to get office he’s gone across the Tweed; But it is oh, in my heart I hope he won’t succeed. And oh how, and oh how, would our Wand’ring Willie act If by his will the Government were out of office packed? And it’s oh, he don’t know, and oh, that’s a solemn fact. _Judy_, December 31, 1879. ――――:o:―――― BONNIE DUNDEE; OR, THE STRIKE IN THE KITCHEN. (Another strike is announced, the malcontents being on this occasion gentlemen’s servants. A crowded meeting of butlers, coachmen, footmen, gardeners, and stablemen was held at Leamington; the butler of Leamington College being in the chair. The demands were for shorter hours and increased pay; while the separation of married couples was deprecated as conducive to immorality. Cheers were given at the conclusion of the meeting for “The Maids of Dundee.”――_Daily Paper_, April 30th, 1872.) To the gents of the pantry ’twas Yellow-plush spoke, “This gentleman’s-gentleman’s life is no joke; And so, fellow-servants, I votes as how we Go ahead with the maidens of bonnie Dundee. For, be it a maid, or be it a man, Our rule is, Do nothing and get all you can. To compass that object no method I see Like that of the maidens of bonnie Dundee. “’Tis true that their meeting all ended in smoke, What can you expect, though, from weak women-folk? But that which we like is the pluck――the _esprit_―― Displayed by the maidens of Bonnie Dundee. So go out on strike, gents, that is your plan; Of course our arrangements are quite spick and span. And all our manœuvres more perfect you’ll see Than the foolish flare up of the maids of Dundee. “What may not result from this union of schemes, If only Jemima is aided by Jeames? We’ll soon be installed in the _salon_, you know, With masters and missises all down below. So go in for ‘union’ each Benedict man. No longer on Hymen let caste lay its ban. While every Lothario provided shall be With a mate from the maidens of bonnie Dundee. “Then come from the pantry, the kitchen, the hall, From footman gigantic to buttons the small, And follow your leaders the butlers, as we Condescend to be led by the girls of Dundee. Quick! down with the master, and up with the man, Since that nowadays is society’s plan. You’ll each one deserve a poor curate to be If you don’t join your lots with the maids of Dundee.” _The Hornet_, May 8, 1872. ―――― THE MAIDENS OF BONNIE DUNDEE. (“The Dundee servant maids have quarrelled with the reporters, whom they charge with having made their meetings ridiculous. They refused to have their last meeting reported.”) And did they its meeting turn into a joke, And fun journalistic presume for to poke? Could anyone aught that’s ridiculous see In the “platform” assumed by the maids of Dundee? O be it a maid, or be it a man, Let each be placed rigidly under the ban. And henceforth resolve no reports there shall be Of the talk of the Maidens of Bonnie Dundee. Dare we hope, as result of this last little game, The Lords and the Commons will soon do the same? How much more inviting the papers would be, If the House followed suit to the Maids of Dundee. For be it in earnest, or be it in joke, A deal of the talkee-talk _does_ end in smoke. Of course the reports are in fault, as _in re_ The counsels astute of the Maids of Dundee. Should St. Stephen’s be wise, and this maxim adopt, Every sort of reporting we soon might have stopped. No longer that twaddling bosh should we see, “The Toast of the Evening”――all thanks to Dundee Then go on and prosper, each striking young maid, You are sweet as the taste of your own marmalade. From henceforth we’ll hope no memorial to see Of the doings of maidens in Bonnie Dundee. _The Hornet_, June 19, 1872. ―――― BONNIE BAR-GEE. “’Tis a jolly conception!”――’twas Truscott who spoke―― “Though Temple Bar’s gone, we can still have our joke; So let each civic wag who loves humour and me, Vote for putting this Stone where the Bar used to be. Come, out with your trowels, and up with the Stone, Though Cabmen may cavil, and Bus-drivers groan, We care for no pleadings or warnings――not we! For it’s up with the cry, ‘Calipash! Calipee!’” Now the Stone is erected, objectors are beat, And the Civic wags laugh at the block in the Fleet, While Truscott, the joker, cries, “Well, as you see, ’Tis a noble memorial of humour and Me!” So crash goes the hansom, and smash goes the van, There’s a mingling together of horse, wheel, and man, Just over the spot where the Bar used to be They triumphantly cry, “Calipash! Calipee!” There are fools in the East as in West, South, or North, But there yet may be time ere the edict go forth, Since there _are_ sober men who the reason can’t see For obstructing the Fleet where the Bar used to be, Come, put up the trowels, and leave well alone; Come, abandon the scheme, and have done with the Stone! For if once set up, ’twould a laughing-stock be, To be fitly inscribed “Calipash! Calipee!” _Punch_, September 18, 1880. The Temple Bar memorial, erected in the centre of a narrow and very busy thoroughfare, cost London over £12,000. So great was the annoyance it caused, both on account of its obstruction and its ugliness, that two policemen were placed to guard it night and day, yet, in spite of their watchfulness, the carvings were smashed wherever they could be reached. The grotesque Griffin which surmounts the memorial is still the laughing stock of every passer-by. ―――― THE DISSOLUTION. In the House of St. Stephen’s Britannia thus spoke: You will now be released and can take off the yoke. As you’ve meddled and muddled till all is at sea, The majority of you can go to the D.! You have squandered my money in powder and shot; Whom you should have protected you gave it to hot. You did this, and much more, in the name of the free, So away you incompetents! Go to the D.! You have fostered intolerance――bigotry’s ban; Like cowards you turned on a stout-hearted man, Compensated iniquities lavishly free―― Nearly everything’s gone to the dogs or the D.! But now my affairs which you’ve scattered and strown, Perhaps will come right when you leave ’em alone. Two million! Ah, they to my future will see! Farewell, then, I’ve done with you――go to the D.! D. EVANS. _The Weekly Despatch_, November 15, 1885. ―――― JAWING “J. C.” (AIR, “BONNIE DUNDEE.”) To the lords of creation ’twas Chamberlain spoke, “Ere my power go down the Queen’s crown shall be broke! So each jolly Rad who loves plunder and me, Let him follow the system of jawing J. C. Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen, To meeting my radicals! Sing out like men, Come, open the best way to let us go free, For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.” J. C. he is started, he puffs through the land; The Whigs they sink backward, dismayed at his “hand;” But the Leader, douce man, says “Just e’en let him be, For the party must stick to that deil o’ J. C.” “Come fill up,” &c. There are games beyond Gladstone, and fields beyond Forth; If there’s farms in the Southland, there’s crofts in the North; There are braw whiskey-drinkers, three thousand times three, Who’ll “go blind” on the system of jawing J. C. “Come fill up,” &c. “Then away to the garrets, the cellars, and slums―― Ere I own to a leader, I’ll funk like my chums. So tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, Ye have nae seen the last of my system and me. Come fill up my inkpot and whittle my pen, To meeting my Radicals, sing out like men; Fling everything open, we all will be free, For plunder’s the system of jawing J. C.” _The Globe_, December 1, 1885. ――――:o:―――― “THE CAMPBELL’S ARE COMING.” Dr. John Cumming, minister of the Scotch church, in London, frequently introduced controversial matters into his sermons, and was at times, rather violent in his denunciations of the Pope, and Roman Catholicism. The Pope wrote inviting him to go to Rome, but intimated that he would not consent to reopen a discussion on theological questions which had long since been decided by his august predecessors. The two following parodies on the subject appeared in _Punch_, which has always been exceedingly bitter in its attacks on the Roman Catholics and their priesthood. So much so that Richard Doyle (himself a Catholic), one of the most talented artists who ever drew for _Punch_, retired from its staff on that account. THE POP’ AN’ JOCK CUMMING. The Pop’ an’ Jock Cumming, oh dear, oh dear! They winna foregather, I fear, I fear; For Jock certain questions has got to speer That the Pop’ wad na fancy to hear, hear, hear. The Pop’ till his Council did all invite, Wha coudna see Truth, to receive their sight, “For me” answered Jockie, “noo that’s a’ right; Just what I wad hae is your light, light, light. “Ye’ve sic an’ sic points I could ne’er mak’ oot, An’ want my puir vision illumed aboot; Mair light is the cure my complaint wad suit; Sae lighten my darkness an’ doot, doot, doot. “Do show me your light, abune Lime, or Bude, Magnesian, Electric――do be sae gude! Sin’ I’ve been invited, I dinna intrude; When I cry for light ca’ me not rude, rude, rude.” The Pop’ to Jock Cumming mak’s no reply; _Non possumus_, noo, he may truly cry. ’Tis not as it was in the days gane by, When a Pop’ could his questioner fry, fry, fry. The Pop’ and his Cardinals sing fu’ sma’, An’ they grin, an’ they glow’r in their Conclave Ha’, An’ their auld shaven chaps wi’ dismay do fa,’ Jock Cumming’s dumfounded ’em a’, a’, a’! _Punch._ ―――― HEY, JOHNNY CUMMING! (Air――“_Hey, Johnny Cope!_”) Hey, Johnny Cumming! are ye waukin’ yet! Or aboot the Millennium talkin’ yet? Gin ye were waukin’ priests wad wait, To shrive _Johnny Cumming_ i’ the mornin’. Johnnie wrote a challenge to the _Pop’ o’ Rome_, Sayin’, “Sin’ till the council ye’ve bid me come, Gin I gang, can I speak as nae doggie dumb? I wad speer ye for light i’ the mornin’.” When _Pawpie_ read the letter on, He took him pen and ink anon, We’ll mak’ short wark wi’ this heretic son O’ _Scotia_ an’ _Knox_ i’ the mornin’.” A line through _Manning_ the douce auld _Pop’_ To _Johnnie_ did in answer drop; “Thae questions ye’d speer we canna stop To re-open the noo of a mornin’. “There’s nane can doot or deny that we Are the Lord-Lieutenant o’ Christendie. D’ye spy ony green in our Paternal ee? Get hoot wi’ your chaff of a mornin’! “Ye’re welcome at our council Ha’, Doon on your marrowbones to fa’ An’ your errors recant, and haud your jaw, Nae mair o’ your gab i’ the mornin’! Ye’ll come to mak’ submission mute, We dinna argue or dispute, Shall naething say but, ‘There’s Our fute, Kiss that, _Johnny Cumming_, i’ the mornin’! When _Johnnie_ gat the _Pop’s_ reply, Said he, “I baith doot an’ deny An’ sae do mony mair forbye, The commission ye claim of a mornin’.” Twice ten Munich Doctors of canon law Acknowledge there’s nae rule at a’ To tell what the _Pop_’ says _ex cathedra_’ An’ what aff of his throne i’ the mornin’.” When Pawpish Doctors disagree As to what maks gude the _Pop’s_ decree, The warth o’t canna be ane bawbee To ae canna Scot of a mornin’. Nae dogmies _Pio_ will discuss To prove whilk wad auld Nick _nonplus_: And sae he cries _non-possumus_; Canna meet _Johnnie Cumming_ i’ the mornin’. _Punch._ ――――:o:―――― KHARTOUM. The Camels are coming at last, at last! Over the desert so fast, so fast! Daring canoe-men from Canada’s shore Mock Father Nile, and his cataract’s roar The might of Old England is felt once more―― Thanks to the Franchise Bill. The Camels are coming at last, at last! The dream of dishonour has passed, has passed. But this we owe not to Gordon’s fame, Or the growing power of that hero’s name, Or to Europe’s echoing cry of “Shame”―― But to the Franchise Bill. The Camels are coming at last, at last! The trumpets peal forth their warlike blast, Every nerve must now be strained, New prestige must now be gained, Money be spent and blood be rained―― To save the Franchise Bill. C. B. S. _The Globe_, September 30, 1884. ――――:o:―――― THE MILLIONAIRE ON THE MOORS. My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, my ’art it ain’t ’ere, My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, along of the deer; Along of the wild deer, the buck and the doe; My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands, I’d ’ave you to know. I bought bare estates up of lairds proud and poor, As they ’adn’t the money to live on a moor, Now like any Duke I my deer-forest keep, And grouse-shootins also――don’t care much for sheep. I now and agin leave my ware’ouse be’ind, Go North for refreshment of ’ealth and of mind, Where solitude reigns on the ’eath all around, On the ’ole of my propputty I don’t ’ear a sound. There’s no eagles now in the mountain’s to scream, And as for the gos’awk, ‘is whistle’s a dream. There’s never no falcons a flyin’ about, Shot down by the keepers to them I bought out. Poor beggars, and therefore you’ll own they was free, Theirselves, from romance, quite as much so as me, In Town whilst attendin’ to bisnis, although My ’art’s in the ’Ighlands wherever I go. _Punch_, October 27, 1883. ――――:o:―――― THE TOURIST’S MATRIMONIAL GUIDE THROUGH SCOTLAND. The following song, to the tune of “_Woo’d and married an’ a’_,” was written by a distinguished Scotch judge, Lord Neaves, it may therefore be taken as giving a correct view of the curious state of the Scotch law relating to marriage. Ye tourists, who Scotland would enter, The summer or autumn to pass, I’ll tell you how far you may venture To flirt with your lad or your lass; How close you may come upon marriage, Still keeping the wind of the law, And not, by some foolish miscarriage, Get woo’d and married an’ a’, _Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: And not, by some foolish miscarriage, Get woo’d and married an’ a’._ This maxim itself might content ye, That marriage is made――by consent; Provided its done _de prœsenti_, And marriage is really what’s meant. Suppose that young Jocky and Jenny Say, “We two are husband and wife;” The witnesses need’nt be many―― They’re instantly buckled for life, _Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: It isn’t with us a hard thing To get woo’d and married an’ a’._ Suppose the man only has spoken, The woman just giving a nod. They’re spliced by that very same token Till one of them’s under the sod. Though words would be bolder and blunter, The want of them isn’t a flaw; For _nutu signisque loquuntur_ Is good Consistorial Law. _Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: A wink is as good as a word. To get woo’d and married an’ a’._ If people are drunk or delirious, The marriage of course will be bad; Or if they’re not sober and serious, But acting a play or charade. It’s bad if it’s only a cover For cloaking a scandal or sin, And talking a landlady over To let the folks lodge in her inn. _Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: It isn’t the mere use of words Makes you woo’d and married an’ a’._ You’d better keep clear of love-letters, Or write them with caution and care; For, faith, they may fasten your fetters, If wearing a conjugal air. Unless you’re a knowing old stager, ’Tis here you’ll most likely be lost; As a certain much-talked-about Major[43] Had very near found to his cost. _Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: They are perilous things, pen and ink, To get woo’d and married an’ a’._ I ought now to tell the unwary, That into the noose they’ll be led, By giving a promise to marry, And acting as if they were wed. But if, when the promise you’re plighting, To keep it you think you’d be loath,―― Just see that it isn’t in writing, And then it must come to your oath. _Woo’d and married ah’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: I’ve shown you a dodge to avoid Being woo’d and married an’ a’._ A third way of tying the tether, Which sometimes may happen to suit, Is living a good while together, And getting a married repute. But you who are here as a stranger, And don’t mean to stay with us long, Are little exposed to that danger, So here I may finish my song. _Woo’d and married an’ a’; Married and woo’d an’ a’: You’re taught now to seek or to shun Being woo’d and married an’ a’._ CHARLES, LORD NEAVES. ――――:o:―――― PROMISE AND PERFORMANCE.[44] AIR――“_Charley is my darling._” Charley was so daring, so daring, so daring, Charley was so daring, yet somehow durstn’t fight; For Cronstadt looked so scaring, so scaring, so scaring, Cronstadt looked so scaring, it frightened him outright. Its forts he vowed he’d shatter, he’d shatter, he’d shatter, The forts he swore he’d shatter, no stone of them should stand: But this was merely chatter, mere after-dinner chatter, He changed his note when soberly the stones themselves he scanned. “Your cutlasses prepare boys, prepare boys, prepare boys, For victory depends upon the sharpness of your fire; But at Cronstadt we’ll but stare boys, but stare boys, but stare boys, Then home again in safety all right gallantly retire. And if they ask us why, boys, our strength we didn’t try, boys, ’Stead of taking it for granted if we fought that we’d be beat; ’Twas the fault of Jimmy Graham, the swab (I’d like to flay him!) Who with boys and with old women had manned our precious fleet.” And now the War is over, Sir Charley’s turned a rover, And arm in arm with Constantine inside the forts has seen; And he swears ’twas deuced lucky he more prudent was than plucky, Or sunk and smashed and shattered every ship of his had been! Now with all respect for Charley, who did his work so rarely, _Punch_ holds that British oak’s as tough as ’twas in Dibdin’s day; And _Punch_ states without shrinking, he’s not alone in thinking, That a Nelson would have taken where a Napier turned away. _Punch_, November 29, 1856. ――――:o:―――― THE MANAGER TO MRS. LANGTRY. AIR――“_Oh, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?_” O Langtry, wilt thou gang wi’ me, On lime-lit boards to win renown? Can crowded stalls have charms for thee―― The painted scene and tinsel crown? No more mere Photo’ed-Beauty’s Queen, No more restrained to Park and Square, Say, canst thou quit Belgravia’s scene, Where thou art fairest of the fair? O Langtry, when ’tis thine to play “Big parts,” their “keeping” keep in mind; Though Beauty’s charming in its way, In acting “there is more behind.” Some say, so stately is thy mien, High tragic _rôles_ thou well could’st bear; Let’s hope as Genius thou’lt be seen, As well as fairest of the fair. O Langtry, canst thou act so true, Through long and trying scenes to go, Not pleased by Flattery’s smooth review, Nor grieved when critics “slate” the “show?” As yet, they don’t agree at all What praise or blame shall be thy share; And critics, whether great or small, Are _not_ the _fairest_ of the fair. And when at last thy Muse shall try _Ophelia_, _Juliet_, _Queen Macbeth_, Say, canst thou make thy audience cry, Or, scared and spellbound, hold their breath? And wilt thou from thy handsome pay, Of poorer players take due care? If so, then _still_ the world will say That thou art fairest of the fair. ――――:o:―――― ROBIN ADAIR. When General Dumourier, after unparalleled victories, deserted the army of the French Republic, in 1793, and took refuge from the infuriated Convention with the enemies he had lately beaten, someone expressed joy in the event where Burns was present, when he chanted, almost extempore, the following sarcastic stanzas:―― ON GENERAL DUMOURIER. _A Parody on Robin Adair._ You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier; You’re welcome to Despots, Dumourier, How does Dampiere do? Ay and Bournonville too? Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier? I will light France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, Dumourier. I will fight France with you; I will take my chance with you; By my soul I’ll have a dance with you, Dumourier. Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Dumourier: Then let us fight about, Till Freedom’s spark is out, Then we’ll be damn’d, no doubt――Dumourier. ――――:o:―――― A SONG. Tune――“_Robin Adair._” Hark! to yon glorious shout, Canning, O rare! Echo proclaims it out, Canning, Huzza! Beauty, each step you see, Displaying loyalty, Whose charms keep Britons free, Canning, Huzza! O! ’tis a lovely sight, Canning, O rare! Thrills each heart with delight Canning, Huzza! What! though no freeman true, What! though their eyes are blue, Still are their lips for you, Canning, Huzza! Lips whose persuasive touch, Canning, O rare! Strengthens our cause so much, Canning, Huzza! Thou’lt think when far away, Where red rose held its sway, On Bosoms, pure as day, Canning, Huzza! Heroes wait their command, Canning, O rare! When waves their lily hand. Canning, Huzza! Whilst you with smiles approve, Naught can our bosoms move, Save Mars, or God of Love, Canning, Huzza! Mark as in lines they lead, Canning, O rare! See England’s hero tread Canning, Huzza! Whose bosoms void of care, Wounds from your eyes but fear, Whence falls the tender tear, Canning, Huzza! View their faces with surprise, Canning, O rare! Lovely tints lips and eyes, Canning, Huzza! Mark coalitions wile, Join’d by a heavenly smile, That can each hour beguile, Canning, Huzza! You whom all hearts adore, Canning, O rare! ’Tis you to guard our shore, Canning, Huzza! Tell wandering nations far, Our’s is bright honour’s war, Shine Salamanca’s star, Canning, Huzza! From _An Impartial Collection of Addresses, Songs, Squibs, &c., published during the Liverpool Election_, October, 1812. The Candidates were the Right Hon. George Canning; Lieut.-General Isaac Gascoyne; Henry Brougham; Thomas Creevey; and General B. Tarleton. (Messrs. G. Canning and Gascoyne, both Tories, were elected.) ――――:o:―――― ROBERT BURNS. In order to make this collection of Scotch Parodies as nearly complete as possible, a few additional Parodies of Robert Burns, and Thomas Campbell will be here inserted. ADDRESS TO THE G.O.M. (After Burns’s _Address to the De’il_.) O thou, whatever be the name Your silly pride wad gar ye claim As likely best to spread your fame Owre land an’ sea, Great People’s Will, or G.O.M., Listen a wee. D’ye mind the time, I mind it weel, When fu’ o’ misbegotten zeal, Ye pranced through Scotland like a deil, Verbose an’ rash, Bletherin’ about the “Land o’ Leal,” An’ sic like trash? To reckon a’ your wild harangues Frae platforms, trains, to gapin’ thrangs, About the countra’s woes and wrangs, A gruesome tale O’ Tory rule, the memory dangs An’ time wad fail. In short, ye kicked up sic a splore, Pourin’ out speeches by the score, An’ vendin’ rousin’ whids galore Through a’ the land, The countra’ bid ye tak the oar An’ try your hand. How stands the case? Ye’ve had your fling, Upset or bungled everything, Mair waste and shame contrived to bring Down on the land Than tongue can tell, or muse can sing Or understand. Despite your boasts about finance, An’ a’ your grand cheap wines frae France, The whisky duties, sad mischance, Hae laid ye low, An’ stopped ye in your reckless dance At ae fell blow. I’m wae to think upon your state, Headlang ye’ve rushed upon your fate, An’ tho’ advice I ken ye hate, Tak thought and mend, Consider, while it’s no owre late Your hinner end. “MIDLOTHIAN” in _Moonshine_, July 1885. ――――:o:―――― FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT. _A new Version, respectfully recommended to sundry whom it concerns._ More luck to honest poverty, It claims respect, and a’ that; But honest wealth’s a better thing, We dare be rich for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, And spooney cant and a’ that, A man may have a ten-pun note, And be a brick for a’ that. What though on soup and fish we dine, Wear evening togs and a’ that, A man may like good meat and wine, Nor be a knave for a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Their fustian talk and a’ that, A gentleman, however clean, May have a heart for a’ that. You see yon prater called a Beales, Who bawls and brays and a’ that, Tho’ hundreds cheer his blatant bosh, He’s but a goose for a’ that. For a’ that and a’ that, His Bubblyjocks, and a’ that, A man with twenty grains of sense, He look and laughs at a’ that. A prince can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a’ that, And if the title’s earned, all right, Old England’s fond of a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Beales’ balderdash, and a’ that, A name that tells of service done Is worth the wear, for a’ that. Then let us pray that come it may And come it will for a’ that, That common sense may take the place Of common cant and a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Who cackles trash and a’ that, Or be he lord, or be he low, The man’s an ass for a’ that. SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1868. ――――:o:―――― IF A PROCTOR MEET A BODY. “_Accusator erit qui verbum dixerit ‘Hic est.’_” If a Proctor meet a body Coming down the High, If a Proctor greet a body Need a body fly? Every Proctor has his bulldog, Dog of mickle might, When he marches forth in full tog At the fall of night. Every bulldog, when he spies a Man without a gown, Promptly chases him and tries a- Main to run him down. From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon, 1874. ――――:o:―――― THE WALLACE TOWER _The Auctioneer’s Address to his Audience._ “The Wallace Tower at Stirling cannot be completed for want of funds, so the project is to be discontinued, and the materials are to be sold by auction.”――_Scotch Papers._ Scots, wha won’t for Wallace bleed, Scots, who’d see such humbug d’d, Welcome; each condition read―― Then make bids to me. Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, Yon’s the rock, and yon’s the tower, Ere it’s in the Sheriff’s power, Pay the _£ s. d._ Wha would hear an English knave, Just pretending to look grave, Drawl, “Is that unfinished shave, Place for shrimps and tea?” Wha would see the cursed law, Grab it in its cruel paw, Sell up Wallace, Bruce and a’ Sae contemptuously? By your sturdy Scottish brains, By your wealth of Union games, Shows that Scotland’s sense disdains An anomalie. Lay provincial pedants low, Give the cant of Race a blow, England’s one――and that you know―― One――from Thames to Dee. SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1865. ――――:o:―――― GAELIC SPEECH; OR, “AULD LANG SYNE” DONE UP IN TARTAN. Should Gaelic speech be e’er forgot, And never brocht to min’, For she’ll be spoke in Paradise In the days of auld langsyne. When Eve, all fresh in beauty’s charms, First met fond Adam’s view, The first word that he’ll spoke till her Was “_cumar achum dhu_.” And Adam in his garden fair, Whene’er the day did close, The dish that he’ll to supper teuk Was always Athole brose. When Adam from his leafy bower Cam oot at broke o’ day, He’ll always for his morning teuk A quaich o’ usquebae. An’ when wi’ Eve he’ll had a crack, He’ll teuk his sneeshin’ horn, An’ on the tap ye’ll well micht mark A pony praw Cairngorm. The sneeshin’ mull is fine, my friens―― The sneeshin’ mull is gran’; We’ll teukta hearty sneesh, my friens, And pass frae han’ to han’. When man first fan the want o’ claes, The wind an’ cauld to fleg. He twisted roon’ about his waist The tartan philabeg. An’ music first on earth was heard In Gaelic accents deep, When Jubal in his oxter squeezed The blether o’ a sheep. The praw bagpipes is gran’, my friens, The praw bagpipes is fine; We’ll teukta nother pibroch yet, For the days o’ auld langsyne! ――――:o:―――― ADDITIONAL VERSES TO “WILLIE BREW’D A PECK O’ MAUT.” Thus Willie, Rab and Allan sang, Thus pass’d the night wi’ mirth and glee, And aye the chorus, a’ night lang, Was, “As we’re now, we hope to be.” And aye they sang, “We are nae fou, But just a drappie in our e’e; The cock may craw, the day may draw, And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.” That time for them the cock did craw, The harbinger of morn to be; That time for them the day did daw’, Wi’ gouden tint o’er tour and tree. And aye they sang, &c. That time for them the moon’s pale horn Did wax and wain o’er land and sea, But now has dawn’d the hapless morn, That gilds the grave o’ a’ the three, Nae mair they sing “We are nae fou, Nae mair the drappie’s in their e’e, Nor cock does craw, nor day does daw’, Nae mair they’ll taste the barley bree.” Thus Learning makes for Willie main, For Robin, Poesy wipes her e’e, And Science wails for Allan gane, Since death’s dark house hauds a’ the three. Then Britons mourn for genius rare, A’ victims o’ the barley bree, And ban the bree that could na spare The youthfu’ lives o’ a’ the three. ――――:o:―――― MY FOE. John Alcohol, my foe, John, When we were first acquaint, I’d siller in my pockets, John, Which noo, ye ken, I want; I spent it all in treating, John, Because I loved you so; But mark ye, how you’ve treated me, John Alcohol, my foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, We’ve been ower lang together, Sae ye maun tak’ ae road, John And I will tak’ anither; For we maun tumber down, John, If hand in hand we go; And I shall hae the bill to pay, John Alcohol, my foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye’ve blear’d out a’ my een, And lighted up my nose, John, A fiery sign atween! My hands wi’ palsy shake, John, My locks are like the snow; Ye’ll surely be the death o’ me, John Alcohol, my foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, T’was love to you, I ween, That gart me rise sae ear’, John, And sit sae late at e’en; The best o’ friens maun part, John; It grieves me sair, ye know; But “we’ll nae mair to yon town,” John Alcohol, my foe. John Alcohol, my foe, John, Ye’ve wrought me muckle skaith; And yet to part wi’ you, John, I own I’m unko’ laith; But I’ll join the temperance ranks, John, Ye needna say me no; It’s better late than ne’er do weel, John Alcohol, my foe. _Home Tidings_, January, 1886. ―――― TED HENDERSON MY JO. Ted Henderson,[45] my Jo, Ted, When we were fast acquent, On giving Bobbies martial drill Your mind was wholly bent: But burglars have revolvers now, And mobs to riot go, And Hugh thinks you behind the times, Ted Henderson, my Jo. Ted Henderson, my Jo, Ted, It is a little hard The men in blue you won’t review Again in Scotland Yard. That you were not alone to blame Is what we all well know, But take your pension and depart, Ted Henderson my Jo. _Moonshine_, March 13, 1886. ――――:o:―――― The following imitations are selected from some _New Temperance Songs_, written by the Rev. R. S. Bowie, of Glasgow:―― THE WIFE’S APPEAL. Tune――“_O Willie brewed a Peck o’ Maut._” O never touch the drunkard’s cup, It drumly makes your sparkling e’e, And changes a’ your features sae, My kind gudeman nae mair I see. Then get na fou’, no, ne’er get fou’, Aye keep the wee drap oot your e’e; And at cock-craw, when day does daw, You’ll blyther far than drunkards be. Ne’er waste your hours wi’ _merry_ boys, Who to strong drink for pleasure flee; For if at night they _merry_ be, You know the pains next morn they dree. Then get na fou’, etc. “The moon, that frae her silver horn, Pours radiance over tower and tree,” Should never shine “to wile folk hame,” Frae tipplin’ o’ the barley bree. Then get nae fou’, etc. Shun a’ the gilded snares o’ vice, “The cuckold coward loon is he,” Who dare not say that wee word No! And act the man where’er he be. Then get na fou’, etc. ―――― TIB’S SANG――“OOR TAM HAS JOINED THE TEMPLARS NOO.” Tune――“_Duncan Gray._” Oor Tam has joined the Templars noo,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Ne’er again ye’ll see him fou,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! When a’ the lave tak’ to the drink, An’ gar the change-house glasses clink, While they themselves like howlets wink, He ne’er thinks o’ preein’ o’t. Takin’ drink baith late an’ ear’,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! Aft he made oor hearts richt sair,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! But what cared he for wife an’ weans―― For a’ oor sighs and heavy granes! We micht as weel ha’ saved oor pains,―― He couldna see the meanin’ o’t. Drink had seared his heart within,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! He ne’er was pleased till he was blin’,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! His wife and weans micht hungry be; Tam ne’er cared a single flee, As lang’s he’d got the barley bree.―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! Hame he reeled fu’ late at nicht,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! Gi’ein’ wife an’ weans a fricht,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! An’ when ance atowre the door, He wad stamp, an’ shout, an’ roar; Oh! it was an unco splore,―― Weary fa’ the brewing o’t! Noo, oor hame’s a heaven on earth,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Life, in sooth, is something worth,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! We’re a’ weel clad frae tap to tae, An’ meat in plenty, too, we ha’e, An’ something for a rainy day,―― Ha, ha, ha, the doing o’t! Wha wad thocht to see me here,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Singing sangs o’ hearty cheer,―― Ha, ha, the doing o’t! Nae mair the weans an’ me think shame To hear folk mention “daddy’s” name; We’re prood our kinship noo to claim,―― Ha, ha, ha, the doing o’t! ―――― SONG OF THE SESSION. There’s nought but talk on every han’; On every night that passes, oh! ’Tis wonderful how Members can Behave so much like Asses, oh! Loud bray the Asses, oh! Loud bray the Asses, oh! While business wails amid debates; And so the Session passes, oh! All this delay, from day to day Arrears of work amasses, oh! By sum on sum, till August’s come, When Statesmen look like Asses, oh! Loud, &c. The Income Tax upon our backs, With leaden weight is pressing, oh! And Ireland’s grief demands relief, The Debtor’s wrongs redressing, oh! Loud, &c. The Poor-Law Bill is standing still, While Gentlemen are jawing, oh! At fists and foils, in private broils, Each other clapper-clawing, oh! Loud, &c. Give them their hour to spend at night, In altercation dreary, oh! And England’s good, and England’s light, May gang all tapsalteerie, oh! Loud, &c. Although the above lines appeared in _Punch_ more than forty years ago, they apply almost equally well to the present Parliament. [Illustration] THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE LAST DUKE. (After _The Last Man_.) All selfishness must meet its doom; Humbug itself must die, Before the Dukes give us their room ’Stead of their company. I saw a vision in my sleep, Of Tainboffcoon, a fearful heap, And Belgian cattle prime:―― I saw the last of Ducal race, Who in the steamer took his place, To seek a foreign clime. His Grace had quite a bilious air; His cheek with woe was wan; The Ducal glories center’d were, All in that lonely man! Some had gone to Boulogne――the hands Of mortgagees were on their lands―― To Rome and Baden some; The House of Peers was drear and dead, And _Punch_ himself as dull as lead, Now that the Dukes were dumb. Yet, donkey-like that lone one stood, In seediness still high, And, turning on the pier of wood To England gave good bye: Saying, “Thou hast set, my country’s sun! Thou may’st shut up――the thing is done; The Dukes are forc’d to go; The Corn Laws, that for eighteen years Have kept up rents and paid the Peers, Have fallen at a blow! “What though beneath them we had dearth, And no reward for skill? What though the tillers of the earth Their bellies ne’er could fill? Henceforth to men in toil grown grey, The new coat with its buttons gay, No Ducal hand imparts―― Henceforth no Duke shall teach the throng, With curry-powder warm and strong, To cheer the labourers’ hearts. “But I, for one, won’t vote supplies To men who thus conspire To lower the Duke in vulgar eyes, And poke fun at the Squire. I quit my country, doomed to death; Hard soil, where first I drew my breath, Where long I ruled the roast; I’ll take the Corn-Laws for a pall, And, wrapping them around me, fall―― Wept by the _Morning Post_! “Go, JOHN――the steam will soon be up, A sandwich I would taste; I shall be too sea-sick to sup―― Unto SIR ROBERT haste; Tell that man to his brazen face, Thou saw’st the last of Ducal race Quitting this classic spot, PEEL and Potato-blight defy To make him hold his tongue, or try To talk aught else but ‘rot’!” _Punch_, 1846. (The Duke of Richmond opposed the repeal of the Corn Laws, and declared that if they were repealed, landed proprietors would be driven out of the country.) ―――― THE LAST MAN. (_A Study after Campbell._) The Park has quite a sickly glare, The trees are brown as tan, The spectres of the season are Around that lonely man. His world has vanished――ah, ’tis hard, He cannot find a single card For party on the lawn, For picnic, flower show, or dance; To Greece, Spain, Italy, and France Or Cyprus they have gone. Sad and perplexed the lone one stood, And muttered with a sigh, “I have no friends by field or flood, By moor or mountain high. The opera’s over, Goodwood done, And sport with fishing-rod or gun Alone is very slow. Until the ‘Upper Ten’ appear, About the closing of the year, I know not where to go. “And wearily each moment flies, For stale amusements tire; An idle man’s in agonies When seasons thus expire. Belgravia is as still as death, And in Mayfair I hold my breath; Or on some absent host Make quite unnecessary calls; Or haply in familiar halls I linger like a ghost.” He sought the club――“Bring claret cup Oh, waiter, and with haste; Something to keep my spirits up In mercy let me taste. And if a pilgrim seeks the place Tell him the last swell of his race This afternoon hath trod, The squares, the drives, and Rotten Row, And met no single belle or beau To greet his listless nod.” _Funny Folks_, August 24, 1878. ――――:o:―――― THE SONG OF THE FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY. (The Earl of Ellenborough.) Ye mariners of England, I’ll thank you if you please, To come and tell me something of The service of the seas: I’ve something heard of horse marines But nothing do I know; Though a trip in a ship I to India once did go. If enemies oppose me, And say I’m very far From being what I ought to be, I’ll say that others are. So come, brave tars, and teach me A vessel for to know: If the heel is the keel―― Or abaft means down below. Then courage, all you admirals, And never be dismay’d, For I’m a bold adventurer, That never learnt my trade. Our ministers employ me To vote for them, you know; Then be bold, when you’re told That by interest things go. Then here’s a health to Wellington, Who made of me the choice; And to his worthy colleagues bold, Who scorn the public voice. Tell France and tell America They may begin to crow;―― While I reign o’er the main Is the time to strike a blow. _Punch_, January, 1846. (The Earl of Ellenborough was sent to India, as Governor-General, in 1842, and remained there till 1844. On his return there was some difficulty to find a place in the Government for him. By Sir Robert Peel he was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty, a post which he probably owed to the friendship and interest of the Duke of Wellington.) THE RAILWAYS GROSS MISMANAGEMENT; Or, The Complaint of the “Engine-driver” versified. (_Written in_ 1847, _when Railways were in their infancy_.) You Managers of Railways, Who meet to talk and dine, Ah! little do you think upon The dangers of the line; Give ear unto your engineers, And they will plainly show All the wrack, which, alack! From mismanagement doth flow. All who are engine-drivers Must have tremendous pluck, For when you get upon your seat You trust your life to luck; You must not be faint-hearted For crash or overthrow, And the spills from the ills Of mismanagement that flow. Sometimes our trains are mixed up, Of common sense in spite, With several heavy carriages, And others that are light; Out rolls the train, and no man What next may come can know; And whate’er happens here From mismanagement doth flow. But our worst source of peril By far, is when we find An engine put before the train, And one to push behind; Then jamm’d and crush’d together Of carriages the row Oft will be――which, you see, From mismanagement doth flow. Unto our trains of breaksmen There is a shameful lack; And hence it is our lives and limbs So often go to wrack, For want of due assistance Our peril when we know: This defect from neglect And mismanagement doth flow. Ye legislative sages! On you it is we call! For as for our proprietors, Gain is their all in all, Which, for the public safety, They somewhat must forego, Or your bills stop those ills From mismanagement that flow. _Punch_, 1847. ―――― “A great deal more attention will have to be given than heretofore by the agriculturists of England, and perhaps even Scotland, to the production of fruits, vegetables and flowers. You know that in Scotland a great example of this kind has been set in the cultivation of strawberries.”――Mr. Gladstone at West Calder, Nov. 27, 1879. Ye husbandmen of Scotland, Who till our native soil, How vain your high-class farming! How profitless your toil! Your fields of grain are humbug, Your flocks and herds are “bam”―― Go cultivate the strawberry, And make it into jam! * * * * * ―――― THE LIBERALS OF ENGLAND. (Campbell’s “_Mariners of England_” applied to recent events.) Ye Liberals of England Who vote by land and seas, Who stamped your names in other years, On Parliament’s decrees―― Your glorious party launch again To meet its ancient foe, And sweep, swift and deep, And no hesitation know, Till a Liberal army, brave and strong, Shall Tories overthrow. The great deeds of your fathers Still speak from many a grave; For the Commons was their field of fame, Their native land to save. Again let noble Gladstone tell, While every heart doth glow, How to leap o’er the deep Machinations of the foe, Till England echoes with the song Of the Tory overthrow. Britannia needs no bulwarks On every savage steep; At keeping rebel hordes in awe Small glory will she reap. She smiles at “Foreign Policy,” While “Peace and Honour” grow, And Jingoes roar abroad no more About a savage foe. But John Bull sees ’twixt right and wrong, Through the Tory overthrow. The Liberal strength of England Shall fill the voting urns, Till Tory fictions fade away, And common sense returns. Then, then, ye Liberal warriors, The song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, And the glory of the blow That struck a Sham with the force of Truth, And laid the Tories low. _Funny Folks_, April 17, 1880. ――――:o:―――― THE LANDLORD’S FAREWELL. A respectful Perversion of _The Exile of Erin_. There came to the beach a poor landlord of Erin, The _due_ on his rent-roll was heavy and chill, For his garments he sighed, for they needed repairin’, While the boots on his feet were just “tenants-at-will;” But a steamer attracted his eye’s sad devotion, And he thought as he watched it glide over the ocean, “There’s one thing that keeps my poor grinders in motion, And that’s emigration from “Erin-go-Bragh.” “Sad is my fate!” groaned the purple-nosed stranger, To beg I’m ashamed, and to dig I don’t agree; I have no refuge from famine and danger But to set up a pub in the Land of the Free. Never again, at the midnight’s small hours, Shall I swig the old port in those well-furnished bowers, Which my grandfather got from the governing powers, When penal laws flourished in Erin-go-bragh. Erin, my country! you’ll soon be forsaken By all the respectable landlords of yore; Then will those rascally tenants awaken, With their nose to some grindstone they knew not before. Oh, cruel fate, could you ever replace me In my seat in the House, where no bagman could chase me; I’d vote for Coercion――though Healy should face me―― And prove my relations were hanged by the score! Where is my hunting lodge, deep in the wild wood (Hounds that are poisoned can’t answer the call), Where are the tenants I bullied since childhood? And where are my rack-rents? They’re gone to the wall. Ah, my sad pocket ’tis easy to measure, Land Leagues and lawsuits exhausted your treasure, Fifty per cent. I’d abate now with pleasure But the devil a ha’penny they’ll give me at all! New Year is here now, and creditors pressing, One dying wish! ere I’m forced to withdraw Davitt! a landlord bequeaths thee his blessing, (’Tis all that you’ve left him in Erin-go-Bragh). And (in my shirt-sleeves across the broad ocean) I’ll pray for Parnell who put voters in motion, And filled their thick heads with this new-fangled notion That leaves them the masters of Erin-go-Bragh. M. O’BRIEN. From _The Irish Fireside_, February 6, 1886. ――――:o:―――― THE ESCAPE OF THE ALDERMEN. (_After The Battle of the Baltic._) Sing the adventure rare Of those worthies of renown, The Right Honourable LORD MAYOR Of great London’s famous town, And the Sheriffs, and the Aldermen, at large On diversion they were bent, And on junketting intent; So they up the river went In their barge. Like porpoises afloat Roll’d their Worships in their craft, In that truly jolly boat It was merry fore and aft: The thirtieth of September was the day, They were sitting at dessert, With their waistcoats all ungirt, So extremely full of tur- -tle were they. MICHAEL GIBBS was in his chair, In his chair of civic state; And the Sheriffs near him were,―― The elect as well as late; And the Aldermen the board were sitting round, As they drifted up the tide, In their cabin big and wide, Each took care of his inside, I’ll be bound. In a moment from his seat Was the MAYOR OF LONDON thrown, And the Aldermen――like wheat By the sickle newly mown: And the Sheriffs four were stretched their length along, And the mace joined in the fall, With decanters, plates and all, Which the company did sprawl Prone among. Out bawled his Lordship then, And the Corporation, too, Loudly raised those Aldermen Of affright the wild halloo:―― “What’s the matter, what’s the matter” was the cry; And the answer to their shout Was “Quick! put the barge about; Now, you fellow there, look out, For your eye!” And then it did appear, By bad steering, or bad luck, The barge against a pier Of Westminster Bridge had struck: Their escape was most miraculous, indeed, Now, your Worships, have a care Who your navigators are When on board you next repair For a feed. _Punch_, 1845. ――――:o:―――― OH! IN LONDON To London ere the sun is low, The unemployed in thousands go, Where the Trafalgar fountains flow, Like Hyndman speaking rapidly. But London saw another sight, When Hyndman bade his friends unite To make o’erladen shops more light Of their superfluous jewelry. By word and gesture fast arrayed, Whitechapel thieves of ev’ry grade―― Who rushed upon their westward raid To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the streets to riot given, Then rushed King Mob to havoc driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven They roared in all their devilry. But more defiant yet they grow, As down South Audley Street they go, Bottles and legs of mutton throw In Socialistic bravery. The havoc deepens! On, ye brave, To win no glory――risk no grave―― Wave, Riot, thy red banner wave, And charge with East-end chivalry. ’Tis eve, and all the damage done, Police stroll up to see the fun, And from each thousand capture one Who joined not in the knavery. Few, few shall smart, tho’ many meet, And carpenters and glaziers greet A day dear to South Audley Street, The famous eighth of February. HYDE PARKER. [Illustration] CORONATION LAYS. (_Picked up in the Crowd_.) An article, having the above title, appeared in the _New Monthly Magazine_, July, 1831. It referred to the forthcoming coronation of King William IV. and Queen Adelaide, which took place on September 8, 1831. The scraps of poetry were supposed to proceed from the pens of Sir Walter Scott, Thomas Campbell, S. T. Coleridge, W. Wordsworth, L.E.L. (Miss Landon), the Rev. G. Crabbe, Thomas Moore, Thomas Hood, and Robert Southey, then Poet Laureate. As the imitations of Scott and Campbell lead the way, the article may as well be inserted here. The little introductory notices alluding to Moore’s well-known love of a Lord, Southey’s objection to write the official odes hitherto expected from the Poet Laureate, &c., sufficiently indicate the authors referred to. Some of the imitations are not very striking, and those on Crabbe and L.E.L. might perhaps have been omitted as possessing little to interest the modern reader. However, the whole of the poetry is given, the comments only having been slightly shortened. THE LAY OF THE LOST MINSTREL. (_Sir Walter Scott._) [A tall “stalwart figure,” with a good-humoured Scotch face, a sturdy-looking stick, and a style of dress indicative of something between the farmer and the philosopher, should be represented seated upon a pile of novels, marked “fiftieth edition,” writing, with a pen in each hand two volumes at once of a new work――at the same time dictating a third to an amanuensis at his elbow.] Long years have pass’d, since lyre of mine Awoke the short and easy line That now unbidden flows; Tell, Constable, tell thou, how long My steps have shunned the halls of Song, And sent, for sundry reasons strong, My pages, an uncounted throng, To bear the train of Prose! But now my harp anew is strung; And eager grows my tuneful tongue, Like panting steed that paws the earth, To burst and tell its tale of mirth. And visions float, like those that danced Before my eyes, when George the Fourth, Be-tartaned o’er, erewhile advanced With knightly train, and quite entranced The fondly-frantic North. Again I see such glittering show, Again such pageants gleam and go, As well might form the golden theme Of minstrel-song or morning-dream. The last excursion formed, I ween, To charm our gentle King and Queen, Was on the tide of Thames; A sight that few may e’er forget, That bards, enrapt, are singing yet: Then all the court, defying wet, Embarked at House of Somerset; But now the Royal party met At Palace of St. James! Sunny was that September morn; And groups grotesque were there; The beef-eaters――and those who scorn To taste such vulgar fare―― And those again who daily mourn, Condemned to dine on air. Highest and lowest of the land Were met, and saw no vacant stand; Ladies with white and waving hand, And troops, a fine mustachio’d band, With brandished weapons bare. And coachmen, comely, sleek, and big, Beneath a curly world of wig; And pages slim, a countless race, So dazzlingly disguised in lace, So like a line of dukes they stood, That had their thousand mothers old Beheld them in those suits of gold, They had not known their blood. Now, now the standard fondlier floats, The cannons speak with hoarser throats, And cheek of trumpeter denotes The coming of the king! Each lady now her kerchief throws, Each exquisite with ardour glows, Each treads upon his fellow’s toes, And deems he sees the monarch’s nose,―― Ah! no, ’tis no such thing. Yet hark! now, now in truth he comes, He comes as sure as drums are drums; The drums, the guns, the shouts, the cheers, You hear――or you have lost your ears. Let all look now, or look no more; What stands at yonder palace-door? Gaze, wonderers, gaze; a coach-and-eight Is passing through that palace-gate―― A coach of gold, with steeds of cream, It moves, the marvel of a dream. With coursers six, are some that bring The suite and kindred of the King; Bold Sussex, honest Duke; And him, the darling of renown, A nation’s idol, hope and crown, Great Cumberland――whom yet the town Salutes with sharp rebuke. And not one lazy lacquey there But glance of rapture drew, Like tinselled hero at the fair Of old Bartholomew. Some rode, some walk’d, some trumpets blew, Some were with wands and some without; And all along the line of view From pavement and from housetop too Rose one continual shout; That Charles the First at Charing-cross His head, amazed, might seem to toss. Rang all the Mall with needless noise, From topmost Sams to Moon and Boys! ――――:o:―――― THE SHOW IN LONDON. (THOMAS CAMPBELL.) [Let the design represent a middle-sized and middle-aged poet, habited in blue, with buttons bearing the initials “P.L.U.C.” He must be leaning on an anchor, reading the last account of the capture of Warsaw. His books must be numerous and classical, but none bound in Russia, as it reminds him of despotism. A volume of his own poems should be lying before him, opened at “Hohenlinden,” as that exquisite composition has evidently suggested the idea of his new one, called “The Show in London.”] In London when the funds are low, And state-distresses deeper grow, The rule is this――to have a show, Designed with strict economy. We here this cheapened show have had; Who now shall deem the nation sad! Distress was there superbly clad, And Sorrow stalked not shabbily. All, all the troops were out; who choose To read the list their time may lose; The gaudy Guards, the Oxford Blues, Besides the Surrey Yeomanry. And many a line of Foot appears, With drummer-boys and pioneers, And last, the Loyal Volunteers, The drollest of the Infantry. Not last; for of the New Police Behold how one, in pure caprice, The hat knocks off――to keep the peace―― Of idler, answering snarlingly. That morn was seen by all the town King William’s brow without a crown; But ere yon autumn sun went down, ’Twas circled most expensively. The Debt still deepens. Could we save A trifle, Hume might cease to rave. Waive, Rundell, half your profits waive, And charge as low as possible. Few, few shall gain where many pay; The people must the cost defray, And give their guineas too to-day For seats to see the pageantry. ――――:o:―――― THE ANCIENT MARINER. (_S. T. Coleridge._) [The author of “The Ancient Mariner,” should be delineated after the poet’s definition of him, as a “noticeable man with small grey eyes.” A crowd of listeners should be around him, catching up with eagerness and ecstasy every syllable as it falls from his lips; and in a corner of the room there might be one or two persons reading his works, apparently puzzled at times to make out his meaning. On the walls should be representations of a giant devoting his life to catching flies; of a philosopher straying on the sea-shore to pick up shells, while the sails of the vessel that was to waft him to his home are scarcely to be descried in the distance.] The sun it shone on spire and wall, And loud rang every bell; Wild music, like a waterfall, Upon my spirit fell; But the old grey Abbey was brighter than all, Each spire was like a spell. I breathed within that Abbey’s bound, It was a hallowed spot; The walls they seemed alive with sound, And hues the sky hath not. Good lord, my brain was spinning round, And methought, I knew not what. Eleven o’clock, eleven o’clock! My spirit feels a passing shock; Eleven o’clock――you heard the chime; Oh! many shall see the King this time. My very heart it seems to sing, And it leapeth up to see the King. What flattering music meets his ear, What loving voices greet! He sitteth now in presence here, With a nation at his feet. And (joy for him!) he’s not alone; Yon lady, look――_she_ shares his throne. The bishops, a right reverend race, Bring first, then take away, Rare things of gold that through the place Dispense a brighter day They robe him next with a robe of grace, The supertunica. And many a ring, and staff, and sword, He takes from many a mumbling lord, Enwrapt in richest silk and fur; On head and hand the oil is poured, And now they touch his foot with a spur, And crown that Ancyente Marynere! Soon about the Queen they’ll stir, Crowning William, crowning her. To kiss the cheek, with aspects meek Now on their knees the bishops fall; Oh! every peer must kiss the cheek, But great Lord Brougham the last of all. Oh! yes, Lord Harry he came the last, But the roof it rang as on he passed; The people laugh, and the peers they stare For they never had thought to have seen him there. I guess ’twas curious there to see A baron so oddly clad as he, Ludicrous exceedingly. ――――:o:―――― SONNETS ON THE CORONATION. By a Lyrist from the Lakes. (_William Wordsworth._) [Our Lyrist of the Lakes must be figured as an “old man eloquent” in all that can interest and elevate our nature. He should be somewhat tall, and somewhat drooping, with a head that scarcely seems to know that there is a halo round it, an expression of quiet dignity and simplicity of character, an unaffected familiarity of demeanour, and a suit of _brown_, properly fitted for one whose studies are sometimes of the same complexion. The white doe, the “solitary doe” of Rylstone, might be playing in the back-ground, and it would not be amiss to have a glimpse of the other solitary and immortal quadruped, that Peter Bell encountered in the forest.] NATIONAL HAPPINESS. Oh! ardent gazers! happy, happy herd Of creatures, who your parlours, back or front, Have left in litters; and in scorn of Hunt And all who once your darker feelings stirred, Have risen this morning with the earliest bird―― Breakfastless haply, or with some such thing As a dry biscuit satisfied; your King May justly prize the crown this day conferred Upon him, and for you his power employ, Was ever love like this! That maiden pale Was there at seven this morn; of cap and veil Despoiled, yon matron laughs. Behold that boy Loyally standing on a spiked rail. Oh! what can damp a nation’s natural joy. EFFECTS OF RAIN AT A CORONATION. What, what but RAIN! When brightest shines the sun, Now as the pageant gorgeous back returns, Down, down it comes! Each honied aspect learns The sour vexation; all delight is done. The King is now forgotten. Many run For shelter, where strange phrases (strange to me) Of “perkins,” “meux,” and “barclay,” seem to be Signs of glad welcome and of social fun. Meanwhile each cloud some cherished comfort mars; Those, envied, on the roofs, slide down again Now envying those below, Rheumatic men, With ague in perspective, curse their stars. Wives, with their dresses dabbled, mourn the sum Thus washed away, and wish they had not come. THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. The very soldiers fly: with dripping plumes Depending, the whole staff, at furious pace, Retreats, most tender of its limbs and lace. On tiptoe creep the carriage-seeking grooms Of many who, among the Abbey-tombs Had prayed for a “long reign!” but not for showers Like this that seems disposed to last for hours! Oh! happy they who, shut within their rooms, Were disappointed of their seats to-day! ’Tis wisely ordered that―――― * * * * * I have forgot what I was going to say. ――――:o:―――― THE LITTLE ABSENTEE. (_Miss L. E. Landon._) [The only illustration to this contribution should be three elegantly-ornamented letters “L.E.L.” Through the clouds in the background might be dimly discerned a face, whose expression seems to hover between Romance and Reality――that indicates a spirit bound by every natural tie to the altar of song, yet stealing a sidelong look at the shrine of prose, as if inclined to offer up half its worship there.] I see the bright procession wind “Like a golden snake” along; And I gaze around the Abbey, lined With a proud and jewelled throng. I see fair Lady Harrington; And rich St. Albans, clad In gems that drive, though ill put on, The peeresses half mad. The little princes too are there, Those pure and pretty peers; But oh! the scene, to others fair, To me is dimmed with tears. One speck upon this earthly sun, That soon, alas! must fade, One little spot, and only one, Throws on my heart a shade. Of all the myriads met to-day, Oh! tell me which is she The gentle child I saw at play By Kensington’s green tree. My eye it rests on every spot, Ladye and cavalier; But that fair child, I see her not Of all the thousands here. She is not here――the reason why[46] Is neither there nor here; At home she heaves the infant sigh, And dries the childish tear. The humblest maid will murmur when Refused its cup of bliss; How must a princess suffer then, To lose a sight like this! Thus, mid the rich magnificence, A vision sad and wild Presents unto my inmost sense An image of that child. ――――:o:―――― A REFLECTION. (_Rev. George Crabbe._) [The author of this “Reflection,” who would have given a “Tale of the _Hall_,” but that it happened to be closed this Coronation, should be represented by a river side, moralizing on the state of some Crabs that have just been captured, and quite insensible to the increasing tide which is washing over him. He should be figured as a poet prone to consider things “too curiously”――as one who, if he had a centipede to describe, would dissect you every separate leg, and instruct you in its anatomy; who would enlist your sympathies for a beggar by painting the shape and colour of every patch upon his vest, and whose picture of a battle would be merely the Army-List turned into rhyme. A workhouse should be in the centre of the picture, with a prison on one side, and an hospital on the other.] Turn from the court your eyes, and then explore Those gloomier courts where dwell the pining poor. Just think what hungry families might dine On that laced jacket, framed of superfine. How large a nation may a little net Confine――what traps are in those trappings set! Will the King give, what he has gained, a crown, To Jones, Clark, Thompson, Jackson, Smith, or Brown? All penceless pockets theirs――the man with cakes For them stands still, or eats the tarts he makes. Yet see yon lady; fifty pearls at least Circle her arms, and might an army feast. That zone for which a princess might have pined, Her waist confining, seems to waste consigned. On those red coats, ten buttons meet the view; Ten plated buttons; ten divide by two, It leaves you five, and five we know would do. These five, if sold, would buy yon lad a hat, Provide a dinner, and a tea to that. ――――:o:―――― A MELODY. (MOORISH.) (_Thomas Moore._) “The Moor, I know his trumpet!”――OTHELLO. [A very _small_ space will suffice for the present illustration. The poet must be figured at his desk inditing an epistle, commencing with “My dear Lord.” Volumes of poetry that exhibit signs of having been read over and over again are thrown in profusion about him, mingled with which are some biographies that seem to have been cast aside with many of the leaves uncut. Invitations to dinner are piled before him, with some resolutions proposing him as President of the Silver Fork Club.] There’s a beauty as bright as the sunshine of youth, Or the halo that beams round the temples of truth; An odour like that from the spring-lily thrown When a breathing from Araby blends with its own. But the lustre is not on that Peeress’s hair, Though gems and a circlet of gold glisten there; And the odour is not by that Exquisite cast, Though his robe left a scent on the air as he pass’d. This odour, ’tis not from the Abbey at all, But breathes round the banquet in Westminster Hall; This light, that outsparkles the courtliest class, Is the dazzling of dishes, the glitter of glass. Let, let but that lustre encircle me still! ’Tis the true light of love, we may say what we will. Oh! give me a breath of that odour sublime, It is worth all the flowers perfuming my rhyme. * * * * * No banquet, dear Lansdowne? no banquet to-day! You cannot mean _that_!――I’ll appeal then to Grey. My lord, you have blotted the beauty, while new, Of the rainbow that rises round Althorp and you. Your music should mix with the drawing of corks, Your glory should gleam in the flashing of forks. Economy charms me――but first I must dine; You may tamper with all constitutions――but mine. Let Lord What’s-his-title exult in his curls, Let Lady The-other still dote on her pearls; What is all this to me, who my loss must deplore ’Till the Dinnerless Administration be o’er! No dinner!――not even a sandwich―――― [The poet was here overcome by his feelings. He was carried off in a carriage decorated with a coronet, and was shortly afterwards set down at a very satisfactory side-table.] ――――:o:―――― A GLANCE FROM A HOOD. (_Thomas Hood._) [Represent a grave and rather anti-pun-like looking person, turning over the leaves of a pronouncing dictionary, and endeavouring to extract a pun from some obstinate and intractable word, that everybody else had discovered and abandoned years ago. Now and then he finds something that repays him, not because it is good but because it is new. If unsuccessful, he puts the first word he comes to in _italics_, and leaves the reader to fasten any joke upon it he pleases.] He comes, he comes! the news afar Is spread by gun and steeple; He seems (what many princes are) The _Father_ of his People. That echoing cheer――it rises higher And seems to reach the stars; No Life-Guard escort he requires Who meets with such _Huzzas_! A poet-King; nay, do not scoff! The Monarch hath his _Mews_; Like those whose pensions he cuts off, He’s followed by the _Blues_. Yet some our King and Queen must hate, For see, besides a star, Their houses they illuminate With “W. A. R.” He’s near the Abbey; on the air The guns their echoes threw; And now the bishops make him swear To mind _their_ canons too. That organ seems on _ours_ to play As if our love to nourish; Be ruined by reform who may, Those trumpeters must _flourish_. A crown is brought, they make him King; A King! why they mistake; _Two_ crowns, each child must know the thing, But _half_ a sovereign make. Well, he is ours; along the way He hears his people’s vow; And as he goes, he seems to say, “Your _Bill_ is passing now!” ――――:o:―――― THE LAUREATE’S LAY. (_Robert Southey_, Poet Laureate.) [The Laureate’s Lay will of course exist only in a blank page. His lyre hath no chord left. He hath taken out a patent in the Court of Apollo, for treating birthdays and coronations with contempt. He basks in the sunshine of idleness――the poetical privilege of doing nothing, except calling at the treasury once a-year. As he could not be conveniently omitted among the contributors to this collection, some emblematic device may be introduced――a chamelion, or a rainbow: or you may paint him, if you will, glancing back upon the light of his earlier years, and paraphrasing the story of “Little Wilhelmine” and the “famous victory:”―― “They say it was a splendid sight, Such sums were lavished then, Although the nation at the time Was full of famished men; But things like _that_, you know, must be At every famous pageantry. “Much praise our gentle Monarch won, And so did Grey and Brougham;” “_But what good came of it at last_,” Quoth simple Mr. Hume. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “But ’twas a famous pageantry.” [Illustration] MR. BARNUM’S EXPERIENCE OF TRAVELLING IN ENGLAND. The way was short, the wind was cold, The voyage on Mr. B. had told; His yielding knees, his tottering gait, Showed what had lately been his fate; His sunken eyes, his face so pale, Bespoke the scarcely-finished gale. His bag, in which he took such joy, Was carried by a dockside boy; And undistributed remained The store of handbills it contained. He had not far to go to gain The platform where the London train Stood waiting, and with wistful eye He saw his welcome bourne so nigh; And soon sank down, with yearning face, Into the nearest vacant place. It was a dark and fusty den, In which were huddled several men, Who gave, as Barnum came, a groan, Which died away into a moan, As, with their chins close to their knees, They watched their new companion squeeze Into his seat, and try in vain Room for his legs, or arms to gain. When he had struggled moments twain, His wrath, which he could not restrain, Impelled him suddenly to rise; But no, he found, to his surprise, ’Twas useless, he was now, alas! Part of a packed and groaning mass. And as he, too, felt weak and ill, He gave one groan and sat him still; Till, moved by his increasing ire, He cried, “Allow me to enquire If we poor victims truly are Now seated in a first-class car?” “We are!” they moaned, then Barnum said, “I’m sure I’d much prefer instead Inside a cattle-truck to ride!” “You’re right!” his fellow martyrs cried. “Then why,” exclaimed P. Barnum “then, If you are true, brave Englishmen, Do you submit without a battle To thus be served far worse than cattle?” Then, strengthened by his indignation, He uttered this denunciation:―― “BREATHES there a man that England’s bred, Who never to himself hath said, This is a scandal to my land? Whose wrath has not within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From travelling on a foreign strand, When he’s been put to ache and freeze In such disgraceful trucks as these? If such there be, one soon can tell That ’tis the shares he holds impel Him to condone the line’s disgrace; Or ’cause connection he can trace With some large holder of its scrip, Or one on its directorship. That any other man of sense Should find conceivable pretence So great an outrage to defend Does probability transcend.” _Truth, Christmas Number_, 1883. The Christmas Number of _Truth_, 1877, contained a parody on _Lochinvar_, concerning the appointment of Mr. Digby Piggott, as controller of the stationery office, by Lord Beaconsfield. This was characterised, at the time, as a gross piece of jobbery, but the subject has lost all interest now, and the parody was not a particularly good one. [Illustration] Charles Kingsley. _Born June_ 12, 1819. _Died January_ 23, 1875. CHARLES KINGSLEY. Charles Kingsley, rector of Eversley, was born June 12, 1819, at Holne Vicarage, Dartmoor, Devonshire, and died January 23, 1875. His poems, though comparatively few in number, are marked by much power, pathos, and originality. The two which have most frequently suffered parody are _The Three Fishers_, and the _Ode to the North-East Wind_. THE THREE FISHERS. Three fishers went sailing away to the West, Away to the west as the sun went down; Each thought of the woman who loved him best, And the children stood watching them out of the town. For men must work, and women must weep, And there’s little to earn and many to keep, Though the harbour bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town. For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep; And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. CHARLES KINGSLEY. ―――― AN OLD FRIEND IN A NEW DRESS. Three merchants went riding out into the west, On the top of the bus, as the sun went down; Each talked of his wife, and how richly she drest, And the growing circumference of her new gown; For wives must dress, and husbands must pay, And there’s plenty to get, and little to say, While the Milliner’s Bill is running. Three wives sat up in JANE CLARKE’S for hours. And they told her to put every article down, They ordered the silks, and they ordered the flowers And the bill it kept rolling up, gown upon gown; For wives must dress, and husbands _will_ pay, Though perhaps they will be in a terrible way When they’re dunned for the Bill that is running. Three Bankrupts were figuring in the Gazette On a Tuesday night when the sun went down, And the women were weeping and quite in a pet, For the dresses they never will show to the town; For wives _will_ dress, though husbands _can’t_ pay, And Bankruptcy’s surely the pleasantest way To get rid of the bill and the dunning. This parody, with three appropriate illustrations, appeared in _Punch_, November 27, 1858. ―――― THE FOUR FISHERS, (Who caught nothing) Four Merchants who thought themselves wisest and best Of all the folks in Liverpool town, To the EMPEROR LOOEY a letter addressed, Intended to do him uncommonly brown: “We’ll sound his plans so dark and so deep, From Liverpool brokers no secret he’ll keep,” Said they, in their Lancashire toning. Four Boobies went sniggering round all day Among the folks in Liverpool town, And thinking that none were so clever as they, And how they should come to a great renown: “We’ll strike LORD PALMERSTON all of a heap, And show we can catch a French weasel asleep,” Said they, their impertinence owning. Four asses they hung down their lollopping ears, When the post came in to Liverpool town, And brought them a letter whereof it appears Those donkeys could’nt translate a noun. For LOOEY knows well how his secrets to keep, And the Liverpool brokers unluckily reap A harvest of jeering and groaning. _Punch_, December 17, 1859. (During the ridiculous panic about a supposed imminent French invasion in 1859, four Liverpool gentlemen wrote a letter to Napoleon III. asking him to publicly declare what his intentions were towards England.) ―――― THE LASHER AT IFFLEY. Eight coveys went out in their college boat, And they feathered their oars as the water they cut, Each thought of the races, and what they would do, And Harvey stood watching them out of the gut. For men must row and coxswains must steer, And carefully too, as the races draw near, While the lasher at Iffley is moaning. These eight coveys went into training one day, And they trimmed their boat, though at first it felt queer Their pipes and their baccy were soon put away, And they stuck to their steaks, and their chops, and their beer; For men must train and coxswains must steer, And if they don’t train they’ll get bumped I fear, While the lasher at Iffley is moaning. The races came on, and the guns went off, The crew now are spurting――the boat does jump, Their friends too are shouting, and waving their hats For those who will never submit to a bump. For men must spurt, and never say die, And when their strength fails, on their pluck must rely, While the lasher at Iffley is moaning. The races are past, and the bumps are made, The crew have been cheered, and the supper is won, The pipes and the baccy are quickly renewed, “The Eight” is deserted――the puntings begun. For men must rest, and races must cease, But Isis’ fair stream can ne’er be at peace While the lasher at Iffley keeps moaning. H. F. B. _College Rhymes_, 1861. W. Mansell, Oxford. ―――― HOW THREE FISHERS WENT SALERING. Three mothers sat talking who lived at the west, The west end――as that eldest son went down, Each thought him the husband that she liked the best, For the girl who had watched him all over the town, For men must pay or women weep And their dress is expensive, and many to keep, And their mothers are always wo-o-ning. Three gentlemen lounged at the club-house door, And they thought of those girls as the funds went down; They thought of their bankers and thought them a bore, And of bills that came rolling in “ragged and brown.” But men must pay or women will weep―― Though debts be pressing――still mothers are deep, And keep up a constant wo-o-ning. Three gentlemen lay in three separate cells―― The last season’s “necessities” pulled them down―― And the women are weeping and ringing their bells, For those who will never more show upon town, For men must pay or women will weep, And the sooner you do it the sooner you’ll sleep And good-bye to the ma, and her wo-o-nings. _Punch_, August 24, 1861. ―――― THE THREE FRESHMEN. Three freshmen went loafing out into the High, Out into the High, as the sun went down; Each thought on his waistcoat and gorgeous tie; And the nursemaids stood watching them all the way down. For men won’t work, and their mothers must weep, For nothing they earn, and their ticks run deep, Though the College Dons be moaning. Three townsmen met them near Magdalen Tower; And the freshmen came up, and the sun went down; And a battle ensued for the space of an hour, And a bull-dog came running up, breathless and blown. For when Townsmen meet gownsmen there’s always a riot, And bull-dogs come sudden, some mischief to spy out, While the College Dons are moaning. The Proctors came up in their shining bands, And they asked them their names, and they sent them down. And their mothers are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town. For men go to grief, and their mothers must pay, And the sooner its over the better for they; So good-bye to the Dons and their moaning. DUNS SCOTUS. _College Rhymes_, 1865. T. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford. ―――― THE THREE FELLAHS. Three fellahs went out to a house in the west, To a ball in the west as the sun went down; Each thought how the women would like his new vest, And the street-boys stood chaffing them walking thro’ town. For men must flirt, and women will weep If they can’t get a husband whose pocket is deep, Though they don’t tell Pa what’s owing. Three girls sat dressed to the best of their power, And they trimmed their hair as the sun went down; They thought of the ball, and they looked at the hour, And the carriage came rolling up――coachman in brown―― For men must flirt, and women will weep If they can’t get a husband whose pocket is deep, Though they don’t tell Pa what’s owing, Three swells are tied firmly in wedlock’s bands, In the morning gleam as the ’bus went down; And the women are laughing and shaking the hands Of those who without them will ne’er leave the town. But men should mind, and women are deep, And the richer the husband the harder to weep, And good-bye to the swells and their groaning. _Judy_, September 4, 1867. ―――― THREE HUSBANDS. Three husbands went forth from their homes in the West―― From their homes in the West to the City went down, Each thought on the woman whom he loved best, And said “shall I bring her to-night a gown?” For men must work and women must dress, Though it sometimes comes hard on the husband, I guess, And gives rise to much grief and moaning. Three wives sat up in a lady’s bower, And each trimmed the dress that was brought from town, Fixing here a ribbon, and there a flower; And said one “’Twill look well trimmed with Bismarck brown,” For men must work that women may dress, And if it comes hard on the husbands I guess It is not the least use their moaning. Three husbands stood at the bankruptcy bar―― At the bankruptcy bar and their heads hung down, For creditors pressing for dividends are And three white-washed men will go forth to the town. For if men must work that women may dress, The former sometimes find themselves in a mess, Which gives rise to tears and much moaning. From _Banter_, edited by George Augustus Sala, November 4, 1867. ―――― THREE CHILDREN WERE PLAYING. Three children were playing, one day on the lawn, One day on the lawn, ere the sun was high, Their day had no shadow, their rose had no thorn, Not one little cloud was abroad in the sky. Their fathers were working when they were at play, Though pleasant the season and early the day; For the old world goes on rolling. Three husbands once met in the street of a town, In the street of a town as the crowd pass’d by; And one had a heartache, and one was cast down, And the other look’d gloomy, and said with a sigh, “Yet we must toil that the children may play, Though a night of disquiet oft follows the day; And the old world goes on rolling.” Three old men stood by the side of a tomb, By the side of a tomb when the night drew nigh; And they look’d to the westward, all shrouded in gloom, But no beam of sunset was seen in the sky: “Oh, let us to sleep; and the children will play To-morrow at day break, when we are away: For the old world goes on rolling.” From _The Mocking Bird_, and other Poems, by Frederick Field. J. Van Voorst, London, 1868. ―――― THREE STUDENTS. Three Students sat writing with lips compressed In a well-known house with their heads bent down; Each thought of the “tip” that might serve him best, And the Proctor came rustling up, all hood and gown. For men must work, and little they’ll sleep, If Dons be cruel, and papers be deep, And the Church and Bar be waiting. Three Dons sat sipping at something hot By a flickering lamp when the sun went down; They looked at each blunder, and crib phrase and “shot,” And they marked down a D with a sigh and a frown. For men must work――but little you’ll sleep If a man with a cornet should under you keep, And the Church and Bar be waiting. Three travellers puffed out a fragrant cloud, One Saturday morn when the sun went down; Though they travelled first-class, you could see they were ploughed, And, oh! they were Robinson, Jones and Brown! For men won’t work, and little they’ll sleep If the wine be good, and tobacco be cheap, Though the Church and Bar be waiting. _The Cantab_, E. Johnson, Cambridge, 1873. ―――― THE THREE DINERS. (_A Lay of Temple Bar in its present state, September_, 1874.) Three gourmands invited were into the West, Out of Cornhill by Lord Fitz-Brown; They found they’d be late, and they thought it best From Cheapside to cab it right into Town. “For men will growl and women will weep, If waiting for dinner my Lord we keep!” Near Temple Bar they’re moaning. They were blocked up in Fleet Street for nigh an hour, And the lamps were lit as the sun went down; They swore they’d walk, but there came a show’r: ’Twas long past the hour for Lord Fitz-Brown. For cabs must walk and ’busses must creep, Which causes a block from Fleet to Chepe, While the Temple Bar is moaning. Three “empties” drew up at Fitz-Brown’s house grand, As the Devonshire cream and the tart went down; And the ladies are smiling behind the hand As the “empties” explain to Lord Fitz-Brown. While cabs must crawl and ’busses must creep, All long to say, from Fleet to Chepe, “O, good-bye to the Bar and its moaning!” _Punch_, September 26, 1874. ―――― THE THREE SKATERS. Three ladies went skating at Prince’s one day, And happy indeed were one and all; For their hearts were light, and their dresses were gay, But ’ere night they each had a terrible fall; For women will skate, whate’er be their fate, And its perfectly useless objections to state, So heigh ho! for the rink and the skating. Three husbands sat waiting for dinner that night, And weary and hungry they were each one, And the cook and the butler were both in a fright, For they knew the fish would be overdone: But men must wait, while women do skate, And its just as well to put up with your fate, So heigh ho! for the rink and the skating. Three sufferers that night were brought home in alarm, Bemoaning their fate with many a sigh; One had broken her leg, another her arm, And the third alas! had fractured her thigh: For woman will skate, whate’er be their fate, Though to mend we know it’s never too late, So good-bye to the rink and the skating. From _Idyls of the Rink_. Judd and Co, London, 1876. ―――― SONG ON CYPRUS, BY MR. GLADSTONE. Three regiments went sailing away to the East―― Away to the East, to our Island new; And the nearer they came their spirits increased, For they were Englishmen brave and true: For whilst we’ve an army our troops must fight; And islands bought must be held by might, In spite of the press’s groaning. Three Regiments landed on Cyprus shores―― On Cyprus shores, there by Larnaca town; And having no huts slept out of doors, And a quarter next week were with fever down: For officials will blunder, and men must die, And it’s little use to be asking why; For nought comes of the press and its groaning. Three Regiments went sailing away to the West―― Away to the west, whence they first had come; And none had escaped from the island’s pest, But all were feeble, and limp and glum. And soldiers must suffer and die, no doubt, But why did they send those Regiments out? Did they know at the time what they were about? It’s for this that the press is groaning. _Truth._ Christmas Number, 1878. ―――― THE THREE PRACTICAL MEN. Three practical men went strolling West, Out into the West as the Bar came down; Each said to the workmen, “May you be blest, For moving this obstacle out of the town! For cabs still crawl, and ’busses still creep―― While stultified aldermen vainly weep, Their ancient Bar bemoaning.” Three barmaids stood in their gas-lit bower, And filled each glass as the Bar came down; And the practical gentlemen looked at the shower, And the mud that was rolling up slimy and brown, For men will drink, and women must keep Replenishing beakers, while potions deep Are quaffed to the Bar and its “boning.” Three “lushingtons” lie in the roaring Strand, ’Neath the Law Courts’ shade as the Bar comes down, And the barmaids are peeping――a giggling band―― For they know the police may be squared with a crown. Ah! liquors are potent, and draughts are deep, And the more you imbibe, why, the sooner you sleep, An’ goo’-bye to th’ Bar an’s moaning! _Funny Folks_, January 26, 1878, ―――― THE THREE PROFITS. [“There must be three profits obtained from land.”――_Lord Beaconsfield._] “Three profits” had got to come out of the land―― Out of the land where the cash went down―― The farmer some capital still had in hand, Which stood in his name at the bank in the town. For rents fall due, and tenants must pay, And there’s little quarter on Quarter-day From the lord the land who’s owning. Three landlords sat in an ancient hall, And mourned the way that their rents went down! “Three profits!” they cried. “It is _ours_ that fall! Where once we’d a sovereign, _now_ we’ve a crown! We have to live――and our farms won’t let! And we can’t exist upon what we get―― So what use is the land we’re owning!” Three farmers consulted about their lands―― Each face was sad with a thoughtful frown The profits were _all_ paid to farming “hands”―― The profits were all in the land sunk down! “Three profits!” they cried, “there’s not a doubt Our landlords and we must go without, And ‘Good-bye’ to our old farms owning!” _Funny Folks_, October 18, 1879. ―――― WHEN WE WERE BOYS. _By an Old Boy._ Three lambkins went larking there out in the west,―― Out in the west at the dawn of day; At pulling of knockers they all did their best, And the bobbies looked on in a bobbylike way. For boys will be boys, and bobbies will bob, And when you get cotched you get one on the nob, If you’re out on the spree of a morning. Three lambkins got lagged and were shut up in quod, Twenty-six knockers the bobbies they found. Mr. WOOLRYCH, he said that such conduct was odd, And he mulct each poor lambkin of twenty-one pound; For beaks will be beaks, though boys may be boys. You must grin and must bear, not kick up a noise At the court when you show in the morning. A marquess, a colonel, a captain, and I Forty years gone went out on the spree; To every trick on the cards we were fly, And now of the four alive there’s but me. For night will come and man must die, And we come, to look back half ashamed by and by On what we thought fun in the morning. _Judy_, March 19, 1879. ―――― THE THREE LAND AGITATORS IN IRELAND. The following were selected, from over one hundred parodies sent in to _The World_, as worthy of the first and second prizes:―― FIRST PRIZE. Three rascals went ranting round in the West, Disturbing old Ireland, country and town; “Bedad, it’s the landlords is bastes at the best! And if ever they drive ye for rent, shoot ’em down!” For rogues must rant, and good men must weep, With starvation to earn, and prison to keep, And a cry for Freedom sounding. Three captives sat in the prison drear, And they longed for their pipes as the sun went down; And they sniffed their stale loaves, and they begged for some beer, And they swore at their mattrasses rugged and brown. For rogues who rant in prison must weep, And planks are knotty, and treadmills are steep, Though Freedom’s echoes be sounding. Three cropped heads fresh from the barber’s shears, Three bowls of thin gruel as salt as the sea, Three curses on Parnell, three strong men in tears, “Me boys, ye are marthers to Fradom!” says he. For fools must smart, and victims must weep, And the harder the mattrass the later to sleep, So good-bye to the three in their “pounding.” GOBO. ―――― SECOND PRIZE. Three land agitators went down to the West, Went down to the West, where the storm-clouds rise; Each thought of fair Erin, the land of unrest, And of fair Erin’s children, so poor, so unwise. For times are hard, and harvests are bad, And there’s little to comfort and little to glad, And Famine’s throes impending. Three men spoke up to the Gurteen throng, And they trimmed their words by Home-Rule light; They railed at the landlords, they raved about wrong, And curses came rolling up black as the night, For times are hard, and harvests are bad, And troubles are many, and hearts grow sad, With treason’s woes impending. Three captives lay prisoned in Sligo jail, Away in the West where the sun goes down; And men mutter fiercely, and women bewail, And Erin――poor Erin!――must reap the crop sown, For times are hard and harvests are bad, And famine and treason make misery mad, Despair and death the ending. OBSERVER. _The World_, December 10, 1879. ―――― THE THREE AGITATORS. Three Paddies went spouting away at Gurteen, Away at Gurteen in old Erin’s Isle, Each stormed at the Saxons, their laws and their Queen, And the “boys” their shillaleghs stood twirling the while; For tenants must shoot, and landlords must die, Cold lead is cheap, and the rents are high, So, hurray for the agitation! Three Bobbies came up, and they tapp’d those Pats On the shoulders, just in a friendly way, And they look’d rather sold, as they put on their hats, For the game was up, and it would’nt pay! But tenants must shoot, and landlords must die, Though a dirty Government plays the spy On the Irish agitation! Three martyrs lay lock’d in the Sligo gaol, In the Sligo gaol as the sun went down, And the loafers set up a discordant wail For those whose orations were lost to the town! For tenants must shoot, and landlords must die, And the sooner they’re potted, the sooner we’ll cry Farewell to the agitation! From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. DOVETON. (Wyman and Sons, London, 1880.) ―――― THE JELLY FISHES. Three fishes were floating about in the sea; Three fishes which were of the Jelly-fish kind, And being perceived by a certain grandee, They called up at once, as he said, to his mind, How much they resembled in form and degree, Three colleagues he recently had left behind. And men now will laugh and women must smile At this very apt joke of the Duke of Argyll. These fishes, he said, iridescent but limp Seem’d all at first sight to be able to sail, But examined had not e’en so much as the shrimp The power of propelling themselves by the tail; They neither had skeletons, nerve, nor backbone, Were nothing but jelly, no will of their own, So women must scoff at, and men will deride These structureless creatures adrift in the tide. This witty grandee has been wont to come out, To come out of his house when the sun has gone down, To meet with his compeers, tall, lean, short and stout, And bishops arrayed in black gaiters and gown, But no one could predicate till he’d begin, With head well thrown back and with prominent chin, Whether friends had to cheer or opponents to moan, Over what would among them most surely be thrown. But all must rejoice, and none can deplore, Our having among us the Mac Allum More. _Morning Post_, August 4, 1881. ―――― THE THREE FISHERS. Three Tories[47] went bravely down into the North, Away to the North which the “Rads” love best; Each thought of the man that had driven him forth, From the snug little berth that he once possessed: For Placemen must live, though the country may starve, And sometimes a blister, and sometimes a salve, Will set party waves a-rolling. Three Orators spoke for many an hour, And told ’em the blunders that Gladstone had made, Which they only could right if returned into power: And they gave ’em some pious “opinions” on trade. For Placemen must live, and――though hardly the thing, Yet even to Newcastle coals you must bring, To set Tory tides a-rolling. Three “Failures” came back, as we’ve all of us read, Sad, if not wiser, to London town; For e’en Tory organs were shaking a head, And hinted they’d better have not gone down. But Placemen must live――every dog has a day, And even “Fair Trade” may, for once in a way, Keep party waves a-rolling. From _Grins and Groans_. 1882. ―――― THE ACADEMY, 1882. THE MEW-STONE. J. W. OAKES, A.R.A. There were three pussy-cats sought the tiles, They sought the tiles as the sun went down, Their faces were wreathed with complacent smiles, For they were about to “do it brown.” And men may growl and women may weep, But nobody gets him a wink of sleep For pussy-cats’ caterwauling. There were three parties who yearned for sleep, Who yearned for sleep as the sun went down, They used expressions “not loud but deep,” At pussies’ commencing to “do it brown.” For men may growl and women may weep, But who, may I ask, can manage to sleep, With pussy-cats caterwauling. There were three parties who rose in rage, Who rose in nocturnal cap and gown, And one of the pussies was, I’ll engage, A little surprised when they knocked her down. A second succumbed to a pistol shot, The other fell down a chimney-pot―― “Good bye to the cats a-wauling!” From _Fun Academy Skits_, 1882. ―――― THREE LONDON FISHMONGERS. Three fishmongers looked for a sale down west, In the heart of the west, when the world’s in town, Each thought of the neighbourhood paying him best Where the prices go up but never come down; For fools will pay when they can’t buy cheap, So back to the sea every day goes a heap, While the public look on groaning. Three Stores were set up some miles from the Tower, And the fish got west all over the town, And the middlemen cried, “We’re in for a shower, If this goes on! Why the price will come down! For men will dine, and――if they can――cheap, And the public seems waking at last from its sleep―― It’s so precious tired of groaning!” Three bankrupts are showing their empty hands, And all that they get for their pains is a frown, And a “Serve you right――why, ’twas your demands That for years have plundered and starved the town!” But fools grow wise, and fish can get cheap, Three halfpence a pound anywhere in the heap, And the public has done with its groaning! 1883 ―――― THE POTTERIES. Three potters set out all dressed in their best, All dressed in their best as the sun went down, Each sought out the butcher who’d serve him the best, It was Saturday night, and a crowd in the town―― For women must cook and men must eat, And the nearer the bone the sweeter the meat, Tho’ ’tis better by far with no bone in. Three wives sat wearily “watching for pa,” Till the sweet chimes jingled the midnight hour, And they waited and watched with the doors ajar, Oh, where were the joints, the spuds, and the flour! For women can’t cook if the cupboard is bare, And a dinnerless Sunday will make a saint swear, With the poor little children moaning. Three potters came home all dressed in their best, All dressed in their best, but draggled and torn, Nothing they brought――you may guess the rest, And the wigging they got from their wives forlorn, For men should be sober at each week end, And give their wives their wages to spend, Then there’d be no headaches and groaning. (Stoke-upon-Trent, 1884) ―――― THE THREE CHAMPIONS. Three Champions went stumping up into the North, Up into the North with identical creeds; Lord S. took the Clyde, and Sir STAFFORD the Forth, While Lord RANDOLPH he posed as a Leader at Leeds, For if Radicals rant, then Tories _will_ fret, And there’s little to learn, and much to forget, When our rival Chiefs are spouting. Three Editors sat in their newspaper towers, While the “flimsies” came pouring in fast as could be; And they kindly cut short the rhetorical flowers, And sighed when the language was “painful and free;” For if Rads _will_ threaten, then Tories must scold, Though Europe be angry and ironclads old, And patriots hate this spouting. Three crowds of admirers they chortled and cheered, For the Leaders went up, and their speeches “went down;” And the Editors swear by Lord BEACONSFIELD’S beard That the country is with them as well as the Town. But though Tories and Radicals scream themselves red, The sooner it’s over, the sooner to bed, And good-bye to this pestilent spouting! _Punch_, October 11, 1884. ―――― THREE FOSSILS. Three Fossils sat perched in the Whitehall Zoo, Out far in the West where the sun goes down; Each thought of his crotchet――the last one he knew; And their fads and their whims were the talk of the town. For men must work and women must weep, Or there’ll be no money the Fossils to keep; And the shipowning folks are groaning. Three shipowners sat in their wild despair, By East or by West they were all done brown! For the Fossils had ruined the trade once so fair; And the foreigners cut in to put the freights down. But men must work and women must weep; ’Tis hard to do else when there’s nothing to eat, While the Fossils go on droning. Three ships were laid up in the stream hard by; And the crews were discharged ere the sun went down; And nothing was left for a roof but the sky; And the moon’s not as warm as a quilt made of down. But men must work and women must weep; For none but a Fossil in comfort can sleep, When the Shipping trade is groaning. Three Fossils laid stretched on a Whitehall floor; Right flat on the floor, on a carpet brown. And their collars were dirty; and loud was their snore; For they’d all been enjoying a night about town. But men must work and women must weep, And when the spree’s ended the Fossils can sleep, While the hard-working world is moaning. _Fairplay_, November 7, 1884. ―――― THREE FISHERMEN. Three fishermen went gaily out into the North―― Out into the North ere the sun was high, And they chuckled with glee as they sallied forth, Resolved to capture the trout――or die. For men will fish and men will lie, About the fish they “caught on the fly,” Their Sunday-school lessons scorning. Three fishers lay under the trees at noon, And “blamed” the whole of the finny race, For never a nibble touched fly or spoon, And each sighed as he wet the hole in his face, For men will fish and men will lie, And the way they caught trout when nobody’s nigh Is something to tell――in the morning. Three fishermen came into town at night, And their “speckled beauties” were fair to see: They talked of their “sports” with keen delight, The envy of all the fraternity. But men will fish and men will lie, And what they can’t catch they’re sure to buy, And never repeat in the morning. U. N. NONE. _The Saturday Evening Post_, Philadelphia, U.S.A. June 27, 1885. ―――― NEW WORDS AND OLD SONGS. Three acres seemed pleasant to Countryman Hodge; With Countryman Hodge, too, the Cow went down; The Acres and Cow were a capital dodge For those who could never get in for the town. The men may vote――the women may not―― But the Primrose League is the comfort they’ve got; So the Knights and Dames go cadging! Three Rads came out in the country to speak―― By the village-pumps where the Cow went down; And they all kept talking on end for a week, Till the rustics came polling up, horny and brown. The men did vote――the women did not―― But though they didn’t, they canvassed a lot; And the Knights and Dames went cadging! Three Tories retired to their Primrose Lodge―― Left out in the cold when the Cow went down; And the women sate cussing at Countryman Hodge, For going and spoiling the votes of the town. That men should vote――and women should not! But if ever they do, ’twill for Members be hot, So, good-bye to the Dames, and their cadging! _Punch_, December 19, 1885. ―――― THREE FARMERS WENT DRIVING. Three farmers went driving up into the town, Up into the town when the sun was low; Each thought what he’d do when the sun went down, And the women came outward to see them go. For farmers must carry their produce to town To buy themselves clothes and the women a gown, And the neighbours wives are groaning. Three peelers stood out on their lonely beat And swung their staves as the sun went down, They looked at their helmets and looked at their feet, And now and then squinted round through the town: For “cops” must hunt for men who are full, And finding them, ’tis their duty to “pull” Though the prisoners may start howling. Three farmers were locked in a cell that night, Who, loaded with “lush” as the sun went down; Their produce they sold and they soon got tight, And started at once to take in the town. For “cops” will “pull” whenever they see Three farmers together out on a big spree, Whose wives are at home a-growling. _Scraps_, January 1886. ―――― THREE TOPERS. Three topers went strolling out into the East, Out into the East as the sun went down―― Each thought of the liquor that’s brewed with yeast, And not of the wife with the tattered gown―― For men must drink, and women must weep, For there’s little to earn and nothing to keep, When the pot-house bar is groaning. Three wives sat up in a garret bare, And they lit their dips as the sun sank low, And they gazed at the squalor and misery there Till the night-rake comes rolling up stagg’ring slow. For men must drink and women must weep, And storms are sudden when men drink deep, And the pot-house bar is groaning. Three bodies lie out on the shining sands Of the pot-house floor in the morning light, And the women are weeping, and wringing their hands, For there’s murder done in a drunken fight. For men must drink, and women must weep; Oh! would that the Temperance pledge they’d keep, Bid adieu to the bar and its groaning. HYDE PARKER, 1886. ―――― THE THREE POETS. Three poets went sailing down Boston streets, All into the East as the sun went down, Each felt that the editor loved him best And would welcome spring poetry in Boston town. For poets must write tho’ the editors frown, Their æsthetic natures will not be put down, While the harbour bar is moaning! Three editors climbed to the highest tower That they could find in all Boston town, And they planned to conceal themselves, hour after hour, Till the sun or the poets had both gone down. For Spring poets must write though the editors rage, The artistic spirit must thus be engaged―― Though the editors all were groaning. Three corpses lay out on the Back Bay sand, Just after the first spring sun went down, And the Press sat down to a banquet grand, In honour of poets no more in the town. For poets will write while editors sleep, Though they’ve nothing to earn and no one to keep; And the harbour bar keeps moaning. LILIAN WHITING. From an American collection, entitled _The Wit of Women_ by Kate Sanborn. ―――― THE THREE FILCHERS. Three filchers went cadging in character dressed, To every move most remarkably down, Each thought on the fakement that suited him best; And the peelers stood watching them out on the town. “Oh, we don’t want no vork, ’cos ve goes on the cheap, We prigs all ve can, though but little we keep, And we are the boys for boning.” Three bob-hobbies sat by the station fire, And to trim these scamps they a plan laid down; They looked very sly, but may need to look slyer, For these night-hawks were old ’uns at doing ’em brown. “Oh, vhen ve vork honest folks are asleep, And in their strong boxes ve takes a sly peep, And we are the boys for boning.” Three convicts, connected with iron bands, In the saddest plights of the “jug” went down, And the peelers are grinning and rubbing their hands At the coves who will never more cadge on the town. “Now then ve must vork with our hands and our feet, Sich a gitting up-stairs――oh, ain’t it a treat, Besides we are barred from boning.” From _The Free Lance_, Manchester. ―――― THREE STUDENTS. Three students were walking, all dressed in their best, On a Sunday in Term, without cap, without gown. Each lit a cigar that came from the West, And they thought they’d astonish the men of the town. For men _will_ slum, tho’ their guv’nors weep, Who have got to stump up to pay for their keep, And the Tutor ’bout work may be groaning. Three students sat up past the midnight chimes, And they re-trimmed their lamps, as they oft ran down, And they “mugged” at their Paley, and got up the rhymes, And turned o’er their “Dictions,” so ragged and brown. For men must work and give up their sleep, Their livings to earn and themselves to keep, Though o’er Euclid they be moaning Three proctorised students the Proctor call’d up On the Monday morning. He sent _them_ down; But not for the _others_ did dons wring their hands, Because they would nevermore wear cap and gown. For if men won’t work by night or by day, The sooner they go down the less there’s to pay, When goodbye is said to the college. From _The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_, by E. B. C. Cambridge, W. Metcalfe and Sons. (There is no date to this curious little collection, nor does the Author’s name appear.) ―――― MELONCHOLIC. Three Melons went sailing out in the West―― Nutmeg, water, and musk, Three little boys at evening dusk, While nature brooded in damp suspense, Climbed over a ten rail, eight foot fence And stowed a Melon beneath each vest. Three little colics appeared that night And tackled the cherubs three―― Oh, the groan, the pain, the misery, The cramp, the gripe, and the inward hurt, The fate that doctors couldn’t avert, Three Undertakers at morning’s light. Let Melons go sailing everywhere And women are born to weep, And boys will forage while farmers sleep, And colics will come where melons go, And so will doctors and every woe That points the way to the golden stair. _United States Paper._ ―――― HOUSE CLEANING. Three Carpets hung waiving abroad in the breeze Abroad in the breeze as the sun went down, And three husbands with patches of dust on their knees Whacked whacks that were heard for miles up and down. For men must work and women must clean And the carpet be beaten, no matter how mean, While neighbours do the bossing. Three housewives leaned out of their windows raised Of their windows raised where the light streamed in And they scrubbed and scrubbed till their heads grew dazed, And their ears were filled with a horrible din; For pots will fall and kettles go bang, And boilers refuse in the attic to hang, While husbands do the swearing. Three husbands went out in the hay mows to hide In the hay mows to hide where their wives ne’er looked. Each said as he rolled himself o’er on his side, “I guess I will snooze, for I know I am booked, For men may swear, but women will dust, And before I’ll move that stove I’ll be cussed―― I’ll stay right here till morning!” Three Judges sat up on their benches to judge Three cases that came from a house-cleaning row; The parties asserted they never would budge, But wanted divorces “right here and right now.” So the men went off and the women went home, And hereafter will do their house-cleaning alone, While their former partners snicker. _United States Paper._ ―――― THE THREE WORTHLESS FELLOWS. Three worthless young fellows went out in the night, Went out in the night when the sun went down, They wandered along ’neath the moon’s pale light, And smoked their cigars as they walked down town. For men will go and women will weep, ’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning. Three worthless young fellows looked up at the moon, Looked up at the moon as they went their way, Each thought of O’Shaunnessy’s big saloon, Where every night they could billiards play. For men will play and women will weep, ’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning. Three worthless young fellows got safe to the door, Got safe to the door as the clock struck nine, Each well knew the place, they had been there before, And drank of the brandy, and ale, and wine. For men will drink and women will weep, ’Tis useless to cry, ’tis better to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning. Three worthless young fellows came out in the street, Came out in the street as the clock struck three, Two stalwart policemen they chanced to meet, And were marched straight along to the armoury. For men will sing and women will weep, ’Tis useless to grieve, ’tis wiser to sleep, Tho’ they don’t come home till morning. Three worthless young fellows came home in the morn, Came home in the morn as the clock struck ten; They “went out for wool,” but alas, were shorn, And they wished themselves anywhere else just then. For men will sin, and women will weep, ’Tis waste of affection, forget it in sleep, And dream till the dawn of the morning. _United States Paper._ ―――― A ROYAL FLUSH. Three Sports got into a railroad car, A railroad car with a pack of cards; They called “hear” “hyar,” and “there” was “thar,” And they always spoke to each other as “paur” For sports there are both good and poor, Professional and amateur, Where railroad trains are running. They wanted a fourth at a poker hand, Three were they, and they were one short, And they asked a stranger if he’d the sand To try a little game for sport; For strangers there are when men abound, And you’ll always find a stranger round Where railroad trains are running. The stranger didn’t know the game, But he was willing to live and learn; To him the cards were all the same―― “They was to all at first he’d hearn,” And the Sports laughed loud and dealt the pack And gave him four queens and a thick-legged Jack, As they will when trains are running. And then they bet on the poker hand, And fattened the pot to a goodly pile, And they asked the stranger if he would stand, And the stranger stood with a simple smile. And one sport raised the other two, And the stranger won, as strangers do Where railroad trains are running. And then in a solemn breathless hush The three Sports showed what they had got; But aces won’t beat a royal flush, And the stranger gobbled that obese pot, For strangers and sports are natural foes, And the former carry cauls in their clo’es When railroad trains are running. _United States Paper._ ―――― THE “BAR” AND ITS MOANING. (_Not a Parody._) BY MRS. G. LINNÆUS BANKS. Three husbands went reeling home out of the West, Home out of the West ere the moon went down, Nor thought of the women who loved them the best, Or the children expecting them home from the town; Oh! women must work and women must weep, When there’s all to be earned, and many to keep, And the tavern bar makes moaning. Three wives sat up past the midnight hour, And they trimmed their lamps till the moon went down, They wept o’er their work, and looked out through the shower, Till the night-rakes came reeling with menace and frown; But women must work, and women must weep, For storms are sudden when drink is deep, And the tavern bar makes moaning. Three husbands shake out life’s sodden sands In the morning gleam when the moon goes down, And women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never go back to the town; But women must work, and women must weep, And the sooner its over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar, and its moaning. ―――― Messrs. Hopwood and Crew have recently published a song, entitled “_Three Young Men who never went astray_,” which has been sung with some success in the Music Halls, but it has no literary merit as a parody. ――――:o:―――― ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. Welcome, wild north-easter! Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne’er a verse to thee. Welcome, black north-easter! O’er the German foam; O’er the Danish Moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day: Jovial wind of winter Turn us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds, Crisp the lazy dyke; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe. Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snow flakes Off the curdled sky. Hark! the brave north-easter! Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow. Who can over-ride you? Let the horses go! Chime ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest to-morrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O’er the frozen streams. Let the luscious south-wind Breathe in lovers’ sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies’ eyes. What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? ’Tis the hard grey weather Breeds hard English men. What’s the soft south-wester? ’Tis the ladies’ breeze, Bringing home their true loves Out of all the seas: But the black north-easter, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world. Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea. Come, and strong within us Stir the Vikings’ blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God! CHARLES KINGSLEY. ―――― THE SURGEON’S WIND. The wind is North-East――so let it be! The North-East wind is the wind for me, To me it blows good if to none besides; For the boys on the pavement cut out slides, And the passenger on the hard flagstones Comes down, ha, ha! and breaks his bones. I have had a _radius_ to do, And a compound fractured _tibia_, too, And that had been scarce ten minutes gone, When in came a case of _olecranon_, There was next a dislocated hip, Resulting also from a slip. Zymotic diseases lend a charm To genial autumn, moist and warm. We have Scarlatina and Typhus then, And Cholera good for medical men; But practice is best, I always find, In the bracing air of the North-East wind. When the North-Easter whistles shrill, It makes me think on the little bill To many a patient that I shall send, Whom that wind calls me to attend And though its music may seem severe, ’Tis a strain to gladden a surgeon’s ear. _Punch_, February 21, 1857. ―――― “BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTRY WIND.” “SIR,――I have lived to see and hear a great many strange things, but I never expected to live to hear an English poet singing the praises of the North-East Wind, as I am amazed to find the Rev. Charles Kingsley has been doing. What does the man mean? Has he a nerve in his body? Is he susceptible of catarrh, influenza, bronchitis, and the other ills that miserable flesh is heir to in this climate? Has he a constitution of cast iron, a skin of triple brass, and muscles of steel wire? Does he not know what it is, as he lies in bed of a morning, to feel that twinge of indescribable all-overishness, which announces that the East Wind is blowing outside the house? Does he not feel his eyes smart, his skin scorch and shrivel, his every limb ache, appetite go, and his temper break down altogether, whenever this same abominable wind prevails, as it does three days out of four in this infernal climate of ours? Sir, if we are to have a song of the North East Wind, I submit that mine is more the thing than Mr. Kingsley’s, and therefore beg to enclose it for your journal, which has occasionally, though at distant intervals, beguiled a miserable half-hour for, “Your dyspeptic reader, “MISERRIMUS MEAGRESON.” MY SONG OF THE NORTH WIND. Hang thee, vile North Easter; Other things may be Very bad to bear with, Nothing equals thee. Grim and grey North Easter, From each Essex-bog, From the Plaistow marshes, Rolling London fog―― “Tired we are of summer” KINGSLEY may declare, I give the assertion, Contradiction bare: I, in bed, this morning Felt thee, as I lay: “There’s a vile North Easter Out of doors to-day!” Set the dust-clouds blowing Till each face they strike, With the blacks is growing Chimney-sweeper like. Fill our rooms with smoke gusts From the chimney-pipe, Fill our eyes with water, That defies the wipe. Through the draughty passage Whistle loud and high, Making door and windows Rattle, flap and fly; Hark, that vile North Easter Roaring up the vent. Nipping soul and body, Breeding discontent! Squall, my noisy children; Smoke, my parlour grate; Scold, my shrewish partner; I accept my fate. All is quite in tune with This North Eastern blast; Who can look for comfort Till this wind be past? If all goes contrary, Who can feel surprise, With this rude North Easter In his teeth and eyes? It blows much too often, Nine days out of ten, Yet we boast our climate, Like true English men! In their soft South Easters Could I bask at ease, I’d let France and Naples Bully as they please, But while this North Easter In one’s teeth is hurled, Liberty seems worth just Nothing in the world. Come, as came our fathers Heralded by thee, Blasting, blighting, burning Out of Normandie. Come and flay and skin us, And dry up our blood―― All to have a KINGSLEY Swear it does him good! _Punch_, April 10, 1858. ―――― ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. _By a Débutante at the last Drawing Room._ Welcome, wild North-Easter? Oh! most certainly! _Here_ a girl _must_ gladly Turn a verse to thee! Welcome, black North-Easter? Eugh! a German goddess, Or a Danish nymph, Never donned low bodice. True it _looks_ like Summer, There’s a chilly glare; But the Sun seems hurtling Ice-shafts through the air. In their glad Spring greenery All the trees look gay, But through Summer’s scenery Winds of Winter play; Sweep my golden tassels, To my bosom strike; Make my toes feel tingling In some frozen dyke; Fill my eyes with tear-drops, Cold――I hope as bright―― As those diamond ear-drops, Dear Mamma’s delight; Through this thin tulle-pleating Worm their way until My poor heart stops beating With the deathly chill. Hark! the brave North-Easter, Like a blast from Norway, Howls along the passage, Whistles through the doorway. Cringe, ye courtly darlings, In your robes of snow, Trimmed with pure white lilac! Heavens! it _does_ blow! Even the plump Duchess In her _brocatelle_ Finds the draught _too_ much is, Though _she’s_ covered well. Her blue lips she closes, Her chilled eyelids wink, And her Roman nose is, Like her train, shrimp-pink. Mamma’s eye is on me, Sparkling like a jewel. Courage! but this wind is Cruel, cruel, cruel! Such a scene as this is Every girl’s delight is; But my throat’s _so_ raspy, And _that_ means bronchitis: One would rather die Than not be presented; But in a North-Easter? KINGSLEY was demented! Yes, the luscious South-wind Which the goose decries, Less afflicts our bosoms, Better suits our eyes. Why belaud and soften With his tricky pen What, alas! too often Women slays――and men? Says the soft South-Wester Is the Ladies’ breeze! Be it so, and let us Have it, if you please! But the black North-Easter Through May’s mid-day hurled, Drives poor English girls by scores Death ward from “the world.” Drawing-rooms are _lovely_, But diaphanous dress In a May North-Easter Means――eugh! I can guess By this inward quivering, By this bosom chill: E’en Mamma is shivering, Spite of her strong will. Oh! cannot our mothers (From the dear Queen down) Some less killing fashion Set the foolish Town? _Mode_ rules strong within us, But――we’re flesh and blood, Frozen by what KINGSLEY Calls “the wind of God.” _Punch_, May 30, 1885. ―――― ODE TO AN ENGLISH EASTER. (_After a Muscular Poet_). Welcome English Easter, Cowards should we be, Loving our vacations Not to sing to thee; Welcome English Easter When we long to roam, O’er the heights of Dover, Far away from home. Tired we are of working, Sick and ill with care. Weary of Reformers, House of Commons air! Sweep the busy city Of the dust of years. Prime with pluck and muscle All our volunteers. Shriek, ye snorting engines, With your loads in tow, Worried station-masters Give the word to go! Shriek, ye puffing engines, For we want to see Paris Exhibition Now that we are free. Let the lazy summer Tempt us by and by With its cosy pic-nics, Ice, and pigeon-pie. Lengthy expeditions, Put them off till then, ’Tis this doubtful weather Pleases Englishmen! What’s the sunny summer! ’Tis the ladies’ hour, Bringing lawns and crôquet, Tea and toast in power; But an English Easter Often takes us in, And ’midst our enjoyment Soaks us to the skin. Welcome English Easter, We must have our spree, Cheap excursion-tickets, By the land and sea, Take us for next to nothing There and back again, Blow the doubtful weather, Never mind the rain! _Fun_, April 27, 1867. “THE SOUTH-WEST TRAINS AND THE SPEAKER’S CLOCK.――(To the Editor of the _Daily News_.)――Sir,――The writer of an article in your edition of to-day, in quoting these lines of Kingsley’s: ‘Oh, blessed south-west train; Oh, blessed, blessed Speaker’s clock, All prophesying rain,’ describes them as being ‘rather mysterious.’ As it is quite unusual to see anything of Kingsley’s thus characterised, it may perhaps be instructive to your writer, and interesting to your readers, to know that these lines simply have reference to the sounds which were wafted towards Eversley Rectory from the South-Western Railway and the clock at Heckfield Place, the residence of the then Speaker of the House of Commons, when the ‘bless’d southwind’ was blowing; always welcome to Kingsley as heralding a day’s fishing, when―― I’m off at eight to-morrow morn To bring such fishes back. ――Faithfully yours, FRED. W. GILL.――Dartford, Kent.”―― _The Daily News_, April, 1885. ――――:o:―――― A HUSBAND’S LAMENT. AIR――“_I once had a sweet little Doll, dears._” (_Kingsley’s Words, set by A. Cecil._) I once saw a sweet pretty face, boys: Its beauty and grace were divine. And I felt what a swell I should be, boys, Could I boast that such charms were all mine! I wooed. Every man I cut out, boys, At my head deep anathemas hurled:―― But I said as I walked back from church, boys, “I’m the luckiest dog in the world!” As doves in a cot we began, boys, A cosy and orthodox pair: Till I found at my notable wife, boys, The world was beginning to stare. She liked it. At first so did I, boys, But, at length, when all over the place She was sketched, hunted, photo’d and mobbed, boys, I cried, “Hang her sweet pretty face!” Still, we went here and there,――right and left, boys;―― We were asked dozen’s deep,――I say “we,” Though wherever I went not a soul, boys, Could have pointed out Adam from _me_. But we had a rare social success, boys, Got mixed with the noble and great, Till one’s friends, who say kind and nice things, boys, Talked of me as “the man come to wait!” So, I’ve no more a sweet pretty wife, boys; For the one that I once hoped to own, Belongs, as I’ve found to my cost, boys, To the great British public alone. So until they’ve got tired of her face, boys, And a rival more touzled or curled, Drives her home to her own proper place, boys―― I’m the dullest dull dog in the world! _Punch_, January 7, 1882. ――――:o:―――― A correspondent writes from the United States, “I send you below an attempt I made twenty-three years ago to parody an illegitimate poem of Kingsley’s, and to show that even a foreigner having a moderate familiarity with Scott’s novels, can write as good a piece of bad Scotch poetry as an Englishman:―― NEW YORK CORRESPONDENCE. NEW YORK CITY, June 21, 1862. DEAR PRESS,――I saw in your Poet’s Corner some time since a poem by Charles Kingsley about a beast termed an Oubit. What is it? I was vexed at the poem. What business has Kingsley to be writing fraudulent Scotch poetry? He can’t do it well. It makes him look as ridiculous as the old philosopher in the story, trying to put his toe in his mouth, because he saw a baby do it. Besides, anybody can do it as well as Kingsley. I can. _Exempli gratia_: THE DIRDUM. It was a fearfu’ Dirdum, ae morning in the spring, He hirpled down the brae his lane, a sair and grewsome thing. The muckle buirdly dirdum, wi’ pawky glarin een, And couched himsel amang the grass, whare he could na be seen. Wee leein’ Jamie Nagle cam daunderin’ up the glen; A fusionless camsteary chiel, aye answering back again. And when auld Jock the cadger tauld him where the dirdum lay, And warned him aff, he leugh, and sware he’d surely gang that way. Sae on he went, and up he gat, and lang, fu’ lang, he staid―― For naebody saw Jamie e’er come back the gate he gaed. But mony an eldritch screech was heard within the lonesome glen, Though what the dirdum did wi’ him, I’m sure I dinna ken. There. And yet I don’t think myself an eminently――scarcely a moderately――successful Scotch poet! _Ne sutor_ I say. [Illustration] Mrs. Felicia Dorothea Hemans, (_Née_ BROWNE) _Born_ 1794. _Died in Dublin, May_ 16, 1835. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. The stately Homes of England! How beautiful they stand! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O’er all the pleasant land. The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam; And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. * * * * * THE DONKEY-BOYS OF ENGLAND. (_A Song for the Sea-Side,_) The Donkey-Boys of England, how merrily they fly, With pleasant chaff upon the tongue and cunning in the eye. And oh! the donkeys in a mass how patiently they stand, High on the heath of Hampstead, or down on Ramsgate’s sand. The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they reprove The brute that won’t “come over,” with an impressive shove; And oh! the eel-like animals, how gracefully they swerve From side to side, but won’t advance to spoil true beauty’s curve, The Donkey-Boys of England, how manfully they fight, When a probable donkestrian comes suddenly in sight; From nurse’s arms the babies are clutch’d with fury wild, And on a donkey carried off the mother sees her child. The Donkey-Boys of England, how sternly they defy The pleadings of a parent’s shriek, the infant’s piercing cry; As a four-year-old Mazeppa is hurried from the spot, Exposed to all the tortures of a donkey’s fitful trot. The Donkey-Boys of England, how lustily they scream, When they strive to keep together their donkeys in a team; And the riders who are anxious to be class’d among genteels, Have a crowd of ragged Donkey-Boys “hallooing” at their heels. The Donkey-Boys of England, how well they comprehend The animal to whom they act as master, guide and friend; The understanding that exists between them who’ll dispute―― Or that the larger share of it falls sometimes to the brute? _Punch_, September 29, 1849. ―――― THE GARDEN GROUNDS OF ENGLAND. The Garden Grounds of England! how hopeful they appear When all things else are desolate at winter time of year; For though the summer foliage no longer lends its screen, The earth still wears her uniform of vegetable green. The Cabbage Rows of England! how gaily they deploy, With ranks of stout auxiliaries from Brussels and Savoy; And regiments of native greens, which eloquently speak Of dishes rich and savoury――of bubble and of squeak! The Cel’ry Heads of England! how airily they rise, High up above the trenches, where the root they spring from lies; Types of the true nobility――bursting by force of worth Out of the low position of circumstances and birth! The Beetroot Beds of England! how sturdily they shoot, The leaves the hardy produce of a stout and stalwart root; A rough and tough exterior serves but to cover o’er The rich internal saccharine――the sugar at the core! The Endive Plants of England! how selfish is their plan, Spreading at first their arms about to catch at all they can; Then shutting up within themselves――like hypocrites demure, With hearts as cold and white as snow, but wonderfully pure! The Garden Grounds of England! how merrily they thrive; They show there’s always something to keep the world alive; For though deprived of Autumn’s fruits, and spring and summer flowers, There’s always green about the earth to brighten winter hours! _Punch_, December 15, 1849. ―――― THE MERCHANT PRINCE. [A very fulsome address was presented to Napoleon III. by a deputation of bankers and merchants of the City of London. The matter was brought before Parliament, but was allowed to drop through.] The Merchant Prince of England, What a glorious name he bears! No minstrel tongue has ever sung The deeds the hero dares. Enlist that soldier in your cause, No dangers bar his way, But gallantly he draws his――cheque, If the Cause will only pay. Where Freedom waves her banners He stands her champion bold, The noble English merchant Prince For her unlocks his gold. For her the Prince’s glowing pulse With generous ardour thrills, If only sure that Freedom Will duly meet her bills. When scarce the gory bayonet Upholds the Despot’s throne, The Merchant Prince, all chivalry, Springs forward with a loan. And vain a nation’s cry to scare That dauntless friend-in-need, Provided only that the loan Is safely guaranteed. See, where a sovereign’s crown rewards A venturous Parvenu, Crouches the Merchant Prince to kiss His royal brother’s shoe. For trampled law, for broken vow, No doit his Princeship cares, If that salute can raise an eighth His gain on railway shares, You Christian of the slop-shop, And you usurious Jew, Assert your royal blood, for both Are Merchant-Princes, too. One common creed unites you, Devout professors of it, “There’s but one Allah――Mammon, And Cent. per Cent.’s his profit.” What, blame some petty huckster, That his vote is bought and sold: What, chide some wretched juryman That he blinked at guilt, for gold: What, whip some crouching mendicant, Who fawned that he might eat―― With the Merchant Prince of England At the Third Napoleon’s feet? SHIRLEY BROOKS, 1853 ―――― THE CABS OF LONDON. The dirty Cabs of London! How lazily they stand About the public thoroughfares, Or crawl along the Strand; The omnibuses pass them by With a contempt supreme; E’en the coal-cart overtakes them With slow and heavy team. The crazy Cabs of London! How wretched is the sight Of one of those old vehicles That ply for hire by night! There, cracked is every window-pane, The door is weak and old; The former lets in all the rain, The latter all the cold. The shaky Cabs of London! How impotent the powers Of one poor nervous female fare, When fierce the driver lowers, Swearing, with impudence sublime And ruffianly frown, He can’t afford to lose his time; “His fare will be a crown.” The dear, bad Cabs of London! In vain the public call For a better class of vehicles That can’t be got at all. Extortion must for ever thrive, Cabs must be bad and dear, Till Legislation looks alive, And deigns to interfere. _Punch_, February 26, 1853. Paragraphs have recently appeared in the London newspapers announcing that a public company has been formed to provide the metropolis with improved cabs. It is to be hoped the news is true, for whilst similar announcements have been often made before, the London four-wheeled cab remains, what it was described by _Punch_ in 1853, the worst public vehicle to be found in any large European city. ―――― NATIONAL SONG. (By an Ex-Patriot, compelled by circumstances over which he has no control, to absent himself from his native country, and trying to persuade himself that he likes it.) The _Duns_ of merry England! how terrible their air, With brows like midnight low’ring, and eyes with fiendish glare; And never-ceasing questions, when you really mean to pay The Duns of merry England, what nuisances are they! The _Meats_ of merry England! how limited their range, Of roast and boiled, or boiled and roast, by way of start startling change; Of chops and steaks, and steaks and chops, on each alternate day, The meats of merry England, what sad affairs are they! The _Colds_ of merry England, how easy to be caught! How hard to be got rid of, and with what discomforts fraught! Swelled eyes, red noses, puff’d out cheeks,――the mildest they display. The colds of merry England, how torturing are they! The _Wines_ of merry England! the Port at half-a-crown! The pure Amontillado, and the nutty-flavoured Brown; Their horrors e’en while swallowing, and worse effects next day, The wines of merry England, how villainous are they! Then here’s to France the smiling, where the weather’s always clear; The wines are light and wholesome, and as cheap as English beer; Where a man may grow moustaches, and――blissful thing to say! The Writs of merry England, how powerless are they! (The Exile turning sadly from the pier, seeketh forgetfulness of his abandoned country in a petit-verre, for which he disburseth two sous. He groweth reconciled). _Diogenes_, January, 1853. ―――― THE BARRISTERS OF ENGLAND. The Barristers of England, how hungrily they stand About the Hall of Westminster, with wig, and gown, and band; With brief bag full of dummies, and fee book full of _oughts_, Result of the establishment of the New County Courts. The Barristers of England, how listlessly they sit, Expending on each other a small amount of wit; Without the opportunity of doing something worse, By talking nonsense at the cost of some poor client’s purse. The Barristers of England, how when they get a cause, They (some of them) will disregard all gentlemanly laws; And bullying the witnesses upon the adverse side, Will do their very utmost the honest truth to hide. The Barristers of England, how with _sang froid_ sublime, They undertake to advocate two causes at one time; And when they find it is a thing impossible to do, They throw one client overboard, but take the fees of two. The Barristers of England, how rarely they refuse, The party they appear against with coarseness to abuse; Feeling a noble consciousness no punishment can reach The vulgar ribaldry they call the “privilege of speech.” The Barristers of England, how often they degrade An honourable calling to a pettifogging trade, And show how very slight the lines of separation are. Between the cabman’s license, and the “licence of the Bar.” The Barristers of England, how, if they owe a grudge, They try with insolence to goad a poor Assistant-Judge; And after having bullied him, their bold imposture clench By talking of their high respect for the Judicial Bench. The Barristers of England, how sad it is to feel That rant will pass for energy, and bluster goes for zeal; But ’tis a consolation that ’mid their ranks there are Sufficient gentlemen to save the credit of the Bar. _Punch_, November 26, 1853. ―――― THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. (By Infelicia Shemans.) The compo’d homes of England! ’Tis wonderful they stand Their weight of shaky chimney-pots, Smoke-drying all the land. Adown their flimsy tissue roofs Slate after slate fast slips; Each gentle rain that on them falls Through crack and crevice drips. The drafty homes of England! Alas! how one must squeeze Close round the grate in winter time Unless one quite would freeze. There every voice continually Of some vile ache complains; Lumbago, or sciatica, Or stiff rheumatic pains. The stifling homes of England! In summer’s sunny time More close and suffocating Than hot India’s burning clime! No breath of coolness finds its way From morn till evening’s close; But countless vile impurities Assail each inmate’s nose. The smoky homes of England! Spread o’er the smoky land, If smoke were only grandeur We’d all be passing grand. The dull blue vapour pours itself Increasingly adown Each chimney, and provokingly Turns everything black-brown. Oh, may the homes of England Long, long in freedom rise, But may the homes of England Be built by men more wise; Let air and light be one chief aim, Sufficient warmth another; And let them bear in mind as well, Our great want is _not_――smother. _The Figaro_, August 24, 1872. ―――― BALLAD――BY VISCOUNT BLANK. The stately homes of England, Conveniently they stand; For helping co-respondent’s games, ’Twould seem they had been planned. Their lords preserve their game with care, But cannot keep their wives; They hunt, they shoot, they fish, they ride And Hannen’s business thrives! The blessed homes of England, How snugly in their bowers, Their owners soak on liquor fetched Ere interdicted hours, Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells chime, But piggishly they snore. For well they know whilst those bells clang Close shuts the public’s door. The cottage homes of England, By thousands on her plains, Are wretched hovels as a rule, And quite devoid of drains. There’s sodden thatch upon their roofs, And mildew on their walls, And yet they’re what the poetess, “Sweet smiling dwellings” calls. The free fair homes of England! Well, these do not exist; And if you doubt me just read through What’s on a jury list. Think of the things you’re forced to do, And all you dare not try; The free, fair homes, in sooth! Go to Free fiddlesticks, say I! _Truth_, Christmas Number, 1877. ―――― COTTAGE HOMES. “The Cottage-homes of England, How beautiful they stand!” (So once Felicia Hemans sang), Throughout the lovely land! By many a shining river-side These happy homes are seen, And clustering round the commons wide, And ’neath the woodlands green. The Cottage-homes of England―― Alas, how strong they smell! There’s fever in the cesspool, And sewage in the well. With ruddy cheeks and flaxen curls, Though their tots shout and play, The health of those gay boys and girls Too soon will pass away. The Cottage-homes of England! Where each crammed sleeping-place Foul air distils whose poison kills Health, modesty and grace. Who stables horse, or houseth kine, As these poor peasants lie, More thickly in their straw than swine Are herded in a stye? * * * * * (_Three verses omitted._) _Punch_, May 23, 1874. ―――― THE HAUNTED HOMES OF ENGLAND. [Mr. Ingram had published a weirdly fascinating volume called “The Haunted Homes of England;” a kind of Postal Directory, or Court Guide, to British Haunted Houses.] The Haunted Homes of England, How eerily they stand, While through them flit their ghosts――to wit, The Monk with the Red Hand, The Eyeless Girl――an awful spook―― To stop the boldest breath; The boy that inked his copy-book, And so got “wopped” to death! Call them not shams――from haunted Glamis To haunted Hawthornden, I mark in hosts the griesly ghosts Of women, priests, and men! I know the spectral dog that howls Before the deaths of Squires; In my “Ghost-guide” addresses hide For Gurney and for Myers! I see the Vampire climb the stairs From vaults below the church; And hark! the Pirate’s spectre swears! Oh, Psychical Research, Cans’t _thou_ not hear what meets my ear, The viewless wheels that come? The wild Banshee that wails to thee? The Drummer with his drum? Oh, Haunted Homes of England, Though tenantless ye stand, With none content to pay the rent, Through all the shadowy land, Now, Science true will find in you A sympathetic perch, And take you all, both Grange and Hall, For Psychical Research! A.L. _The Pall Mall Gazette_, December 21, 1883. ―――― THE MEN OF ENGLAND. _By a blighted being turned pessimist through disappointed ambition._ I. The stately men of England, How eloquent the band; Setting their sails to catch the breeze Which they themselves have fanned! With argument, not over sound Patched up with awkward seam, Whig versus Tory――both a’ground On life’s tumultuous stream! II. The merry men of England, Who take a strange delight, In making jokes that none can see Unless he’s extra bright! Who volunteer a comic song Some pointless tale retold! Or try and make you think you’re wrong And roar to see you sold! III. The saintly men of England, Teaching their screeching choirs; Full of huge pedantic words! Their sermons lasting hours! Though down upon “life’s idle whims!” Though _other_ men they scorn, You’ll see them――well――not chanting hymns On many a tennis lawn. IV. The free, fair trade of England, Long, long in shop and stall, May harmless customers be fleeced Of their small and little all! Thus, to my thinking it behoves Him who earth’s paths hath trod To mind and not spoil other coves By sparing satire’s rod. From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley, Cambridge, 1883. ―――― THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. The unhealthy Homes of England! How jauntily they stand Among their long-untended drains By crafty builders planned! The deer would shun them like the pest, Though beautiful they seem, And the Doctor’s face, in passing by, Lights with a sickly gleam. The drainy Homes of England! In Summer’s sultry heat What sniffs of not unmixed delight Each varied odour greet! Then woman’s voice is heard to say She thinks there’s something wrong, While manly lips the landlord bless In language rather strong. The typhoid Homes of England! How pleasant ’tis to know That liquid _microbes_ of disease Keep up a constant flow! Simple, yet sure, the plan whereby The sewer-gas ascends; They’re perfect masters of their art, Our homicidal friends. The fever-dens of England! By thousands on her plain, They smile at the defective pipes Which link them with the “main.” Through glowing orchards forth they peep, And gardens all abloom, And hygienic dullards sleep Unconscious of their doom. The scamping rogues of England! Long, long in hut and hall May heads of wisdom still be reared To circumvent them all! And trapped for ever be the drains, And pure the watery store Where first the child’s glad spirit learns What lurks beneath the floor. _Punch_, August 30, 1884. ―――― COTTAGE HOMES _Theoretical_―― Ye Cottage Homes of England! How pleasantly ye stand, With bees and bowers and birds and flowers, And rich allotment land! How happy, too, each owner, As fearless, free, and frank, He thanks his landlord that he has His “oven, porch, and tank!” _Practical_―― Ye Cottage Homes of England, That reek with filth and smells; There’s rheumatism in your roofs, There’s typhus in your wells; And many an ill-fed tenant―― His landlord’s helpless fief―― Looks forward to his workhouse home With positive relief! _Truth Christmas Number_, 1885. [Illustration] CASABIANCA, THE HEROIC BOY. The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle’s wreck Shone round him o’er the dead; Yet beautiful and bright he stood As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though child-like form! The flames rolled on――he would not go Without his father’s word; That father faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud――“Say, father, say. If yet my task is done!” He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. “Speak, father!” once again he cried, “If I may yet be gone! And”――but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair! He shouted yet once more aloud, “My father! must I stay?” While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way: They wrapped the ship in splendour wild. They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. Then came a burst of thunder sound―― The boy――oh! where was he? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea, With mast and helm and pennon fair, That well had borne their part―― But the noblest thing that perished there, Was that young faithful heart. MRS. HEMANS. ―――― EXPLOITS OF THE EMINENT I. (The character of Macbeth was not one of Mr. Irving’s theatrical successes.) Macbeth stood on the new built stage, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit his tragic rage Shone round his classic head. Yes――beautiful and bright he stood, A stalwart, graceful form, And raved about old Duncan’s blood, Whose corpus still was warm. (_Six verses omitted here._) The gods applaud with thunder sound: Irving――O! Where was he? Ask of the wise ones grouped around, Who came _Macbeth_ to see. His eye had then no lurid glare, He bowed, with grateful heart; But a noble thing was murdered there―― ’Twas Shakespeare’s tragic art, _The Figaro_, October 13, 1875. ―――― THE MULE. The Mule stood on the steamboat deck, For the land he would not tread; They tied an halter round his neck And whacked him on the head, Yet obstinate and braced he stood, As born the sea to rule, A creature of the old pack brood, A stubborn steadfast mule. They cursed and swore, but he would not go Until he felt inclined, And though they thundered blow on blow, He altered not his mind. The ship’s boy to his master cried, “The varmint’s bound to stay,” And still upon that old mule’s hide The sounding lash made play. His master from the shore replied, The ship’s about to sail, And as all other means you’ve tried, Suppose you twist his tail; I think that that will make him land. The ship’s boy, brave though pale, Then nearer drew, with outstretched hand, To twist that old mule’s tail. There came a sudden kick behind, The boy, oh! where was he? Ask of the softly blowing wind, The fishes in the sea. For a moment not a sound was heard, And that mule he winked his eye, As though to say to him who’d gone, “How was that for high?” ―――― A PROSE VERSION. “The boy stood on the back-yard fence whence all but he had fled. The flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed. One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat; with piteous accent loud he cried, ‘I never thought of that.’ A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he tied; the sparks flew wide, and red, and hot; they fell upon the brat; they fired the crackers in his hand and lit those in his hat. Then came a burst of rattling sound――the boy, where was he gone? Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of flesh and bone, and scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and books, and yarn, the relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father’s barn.” ―――― CASABIANK. The dog lay on the butcher’s stoop And in a pleasant doze, Forgot his lack of bed and board And all his canine woes. He dreamed of one fair pup he loved And soft his tail he wagged; ’Twas in those days when he was young, And kennelled, fed, and tagged. Her spirit seemed to hover ’round, For from the shop behind A fragrance came which somehow brought That she-dog to his mind. And of those pugs who’d scratched with him, And barked and gambolled ’round, Some ate the poisoned chop and died, Some perished in the pound. The dog dreamed on――the butcher-man Looked down on him and said, “A roly-poly sausage skin Shall be your final bed. With pepper and sweet marjoram And fragrant allspice grains, Casabiank, ’twill be my task To mingle your remains. And though you’re old and tough, embalmed In spices of the East, You’ll for my faithful customers Provide a dainty feast.” He took three paces toward the dog, That pup――O, where was he? Ask of the reeking knives that tore Through hide and hair and flea. And since that day though many a neck Has felt that cleaver keen, No fairer dog-meat ever fed The butcher’s dread machine. ANONYMOUS. ―――― THE FATE OF THE PEERS. The Peer stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The storm that meant his Order’s wreck Roared round his puzzled head. Yet masterful and mad he stood, As though all threats were vain; A creature of most noble blood, But of a childish brain. The storm raged on――he would not go Without his leader’s word; That leader, fooled by friend or foe, No warning voices heard. He called aloud: “See, Cecil, see How thick the people loom!” He knew not that Lord Salisburee Was reckless of his doom. “Oh, let me go,” again he cried, “I surely can be spared?” “Nay, you must stay,” the “Whip” replied, “Since you’ve remained ‘unpaired.’” Upon his brow he felt the weight Of unaccustomed care, And tried “to follow the debate,” But ended in despair. And shouted but once more aloud: “Oh, Cecil, _must_ I stay!” But Cecil, still unwisely proud, Would have his wilful way. There came a burst, a shock, a jar! The Peer――oh! where was he? Ask of the Chief who scattered far Our old Nobilitee. Dukes, Earls, and Barons went to smash Amidst a grateful cheer; But the crassest victim of the crash Was that deluded Peer! _Truth_, October 16, 1884. ―――― THE OLD MAN LINGERED. The girl stewed on the burning deck, For Rockaway she fled; The sun which blazed down on her neck, Turned all her tresses red. Yet innocent by Pa she sat, While glances shy and warm Shot from beneath her saucy hat At every manlike form. Pa left to see a friend, he told: And then her smile was sweet On Mr. Jones, who growing bold, Took by her side a seat. The boat rolled on. Jones would not go Without her father’s word; That father at the bar below Her laugh no longer heard. She called (not loud) “Stay, father, stay Until thy task is done.” She knew, too well, the old man’s way, Unconscious of her fun. The wind had freshened to a gale, The boat tossed on the sea, “Oh, miss,” cried Jones, “why art thou pale? Why talk’st thou not to me?” “Speak, maiden!” once again he cried; “Art ailing? Tell me quick.” And but the drooping maid replied, “Oh, I――I feel so sick.” Upon her brow then came his breath; He smoothed her frizzled hair. She looked for all the world like death; He looked like grim despair. She murmured but once more aloud, “Oh Jones, a basin――quick!” Not one was left, for in that crowd Each female, too was sick. Oh, when was gallant like to Jones; Or, rather, one so flat! With one heroic smile, he groans, “Here, darling, is my hat.” Then came a burst of lightning sound; The girl!――oh, where was she? A-spoiling Jones’s hat, which crowned His cup of misery. Oh! Knights of old and heroes rare; Oh! lovers think of that, The noblest thing which perished there Was Jones’s new silk hat. _American Paper._ ―――― A poetical squib which has gone the round of the U. S. papers is evidently based on the same original: The boy stood by the stable door And watched the pensive mule; A thoughtful attitude it wore, An air serenely cool. That boy approached its hinder end―― Let fall the pitying tears, “He’s gone to meet his brother, and His age was seven years.” [Illustration] THE BETTER LAND. “I hear thee speak of the Better Land, Thou callest its children a happy band; Mother, oh where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire flies glance through the myrtle boughs?’ ――‘Not there, not there, my child!” “Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or ’midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?’ ――‘Not there, not there, my child!” “Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?―― Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?’ ――‘Not there, not there, my child!” “Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair.―― Sorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, ――It is there, it is there, my child!” MRS. HEMANS. ―――― THE BEST HOTELS. “I’ve heard thee speak of a good hotel, Where they charged thee little and fed thee well; Mother, oh where is this hostel of thine, Shall we not seek it and go there to dine? Is’t in some fair city of the far North East, By the winding Wear?” “Oh! not in the least, Not there, not there, my child.” “Is’t among the people who love to boast Of their “Town Improvements” the princely cost? Who say that, to keep their bodies sound They have spent £100,000?[48] Where (when small-pox is absent[49]) Hygeia dwells, Is it there, is it there, this best of hotels!” “Not there, not there, my child.” “Is it where, through the small though festive rooms A drainpipe sheds its rich perfumes―― O’er the strange old birds with skinny wings, Which the languid waiter to table brings, With tottering steps that betoken, alas! The chronic effects of sewer gas?” “Not there, not there, my child.” Is it far away in some region cold Where the visitor’s welcome; if he have gold That he’s willing to spend on most villainous wine At the regally privileged “Bleed him fine?” here the whole concern abounds in “sells”―― Is it there, sweet mother, this best of hotels? “Not there, not there, my child.” Full many a city, my gentle boy Hath hostels in plenty where thou may’st enjoy Good viands well cooked, rooms sweet and large, Decent wines, and good waiting, at moderate charge; But, unless to thy soul disappointment is dear, Seek them not in the town by the mouth of the Wear; “Not there, not there, my child!” ―――― THE “THREE ACRES AND A COW” LEGEND. The familiar joke, that every labourer was promised three acres and a cow, arose, as myths usually arise, out of an inversion of actual facts. Nobody ever seriously believed that such promises were made, and everybody knows that the substratum of truth on which the misrepresentation rested was that some machinery must be set up to promote the restoration of the people to the soil. There was, however, no desire to injure the landowners. Mr. Chamberlain speaking at the Westminster Palace Hotel, in January, 1886, observed that:―― “The Tories have universally asserted that we promised to every labourer, as a free gift, three acres of land and a cow. (Laughter.) Well, I don’t think the labourers are fools. They have not shown it at the last election; and I don’t suppose many of them have been deceived by this falsehood. I sometimes think we were a little too eager to contradict it. (Laughter.) At all events, if we see it necessary to repudiate this burlesque of our intentions and our promises, let us take care to do nothing to discourage the expectation, perfectly praiseworthy and reasonable in itself, that facilities should be made by legislation for every thrifty, industrious labourer to obtain at a fair price an adequate, independent, and secure interest in the soil which he cultivates.” _The Globe_, (London), in an article on _The Three Acres Legend_, observed:―― “Whether anybody ever said, in jest or earnest, that Mr. Chamberlain had promised three acres and a cow to every elector who voted Liberal, we do not know. But someone has been writing to him to ask whether such a statement, supposing it to have been made, would be true, and the inquirer has received the answer which he might have looked for. The statement is not true. Mr. Chamberlain’s secretary goes on to suggest to the right hon. gentleman’s correspondent that he has only to challenge those who make the assertion to prove it by quotation, adding, that if they decline the challenge he will know how to deal with them. He will, in fact, be able to charge them with uttering falsehoods.” THREE ACRES AND A COW. I have heard you speak of “three acres of land,” With “a cow” to belong to each peasant band; Tell me, oh! where are those acres found, That promised spot of domestic ground? Tell me, oh! where is that happy shore Where we all shall settle, and starve no more; Not here, not here, my man! Where father shall sit ’neath his sheltering vine, And smoke his own pipe, and drink his wine, And mother and sisters, at tea in the shade, Bless the rosy bowers their hands have made; While the cow untethered, and ranging free, Crops the summer wealth of our acres three? Not here, not here, my man! Say, are they then where rich travellers roam O’er the heathery hills of the “Scot at home”? Or are they where Erin’s gay sons abide, By the Liffey’s stream or the Shannon’s tide? Or are they in Northern or Southern Wales, Where St. David’s cliffs woo the Western gales? Not there, not there, my man! Eye hath not seen them, my gentle Will; Ear hath not heard of them; valley or hill, Pasture, or moorland, or woodland fair, John Hodge and his brats may not settle there; Not there, not there, my man! Trust not, oh trust not, to statesmen’s smiles; These visions so fair are delusion’s wiles And the acres are only “_Chateaux en Espagne_,” Built up in the head of Joe Chamberlain; They are there, they are there, my man! EDWARD WALFORD, M.A. _Life_, December 10, 1885. ―――― THE BIT O’ LAND. I hear thee speak of a bit o’land, And a cow for every labouring hand; Tell me, dear mother, where is that shore, Where shall I find it and work no more? Is it at home, this unoccupied ground, Where the three acres and cow will be found? Is it where Pheasants and Partridges breed, Or in the fields where the farmer is sowing his seed? Is it upon the moors, so wild and so grand, I shall find this bit of arable land? Not there, not there, my Giles. Is it far away on the Rio Grande? In Zululand or Basutoland? Is it far away on forbidding shores, Where Unicorns fight and the Lion roars? Or will it in Soudan be found, Where English bones manure the ground? Or on the banks of ancient Nile? Perhaps ’tis on some Coral Isle, With dusky groves and silver strand,―― Is it there, dear mother, that bit o’ land? Not there, not there, my Giles. Eye hath not seen that fair land, my child, Ear hath but heard an echo wild,―― The nightmare of excited brain That dreamers, have, like Chamberlain Far away, beyond the ken Of sober, practical, business men; Far away beyond the sight Of men whose heads are screwed on right; Where castles in the air do stand, Behold the cow and the bit o’ land! ’Tis there, ’tis there, my Giles. 1885. ―――― “THE PROMISED LAND!” (Three Acres.) “I hear thee speak of a ‘Plot of Land,’ For each and all of the Peasant band; Where! Oh Where! is this garden store? Shall we not till it and starve no more? Is it where the lordling sits in his pride, ’Mid wealth that to me has been denied? Is it where the flocks on the hill-side graze, Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays; Or the hare runs wild on every hand Is it there? Is it there? That Promised Land!” “Not there! Not there! my Giles!” “Is it far away in some distant spot, This promised parcel of garden plot? Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees, And the sound of the wind among the trees; Where no turnips are planted, or apples grown, Or the fruits of the earth in season sown; Where the land is idle, and nought is seen But the fragrant flowers and woodland green, And the sun shines down on a desolate spot,―― Is it there? Is it there? ‘My three-acre plot!’” “Not there! Not there! my Giles!” “It is deeply hid in the _mazy_ brain Of the venturesome Joseph Chamber_lain_! ’Tis but a bribe to catch a vote, A bait to hook fish by the throat; In vulgar phrase it’s ‘_All my eye_’! A newly invented election cry. It has _no existence in sober sense_,―― It is but the product of impudence! It lives but in _Chamberlain’s speech so bland_, This tempting plot of that Promised Land―― It is there! only there! my Giles!” ―――― THE PROMISED LAND: THREE ACRES. (An answer to the preceding Parody.) I hear thee speak of a Plot of Land For every one of the peasant band, Tories! Oh, where is that garden store? Shall we not till it and starve no more? Is it where the lordling sits in his pride, ’Mid wealth that to me has been denied? Is it where the flocks on the black hills graze, Or the stag in the forest leaps and plays? Or the hare runs wild on every hand, Is it there, dear friend, that better land? Not there, not there, my man. Is it far away in some distant spot, The promised parcel of garden plot Where nothing is heard but the murmuring bees, And the sighs of the winds among the trees; Where no turnips are sown or sweet apples grown, Or fruit of the earth in its season known; Where the land is idle and nought is seen But the dear wild flowers and woodland green, And the sun shines down on a desolate spot―― Is it there, is it there, my three acre plot? Not there, not there, my man. It only exists in the “Tory” brain. Though they always “father it” on Chamberlain; They think we want bribes to get a vote, Like the Tories from Parnell, then cut his throat; But in vulgar phrase, it is all in “my eye,” “A great, big, thumping,” Tory “lie;” It has no existence in sober sense, It’s the product of Tory insolence; It’s author I think was the man in the moon, And if you expect to find such a boon―― It is there, it is there, my man. ANONYMOUS. ―――― OUT WEST. I hear thee speak of a Western land, Thou callest its children a wide-awake band―― Father, oh, where is that favored spot? Shall we not seek it and build us a cot? Is it where the hills of Berkshire stand Whence the honey comes already canned, Not there, not there, my child. Is it far away in the Empire state Where Horace Greeley feels first rate, Where the people are ruled by Tammany ring, And Mr. Fisk is a Railroad King, With two thousand men at his command, Besides a boat with a big brass band? Not there, not there, my child! Is it where the little pigs grow great In the fertile vales of the Buckeye State? And get so fat on acorns and meal That they sell every bit of them all but the squeal, Where the butchers have such a plenty of hogs That they don’t make sausages out of dogs. Not there, not there, my child! Or is it where they fortunes make, Where they’ve got a tunnel under the lake, Where the stores are full of wheat and corn And divorces are plenty as sure as you’re born, Where Long John Wentworth is right on hand―― Is it there, dear father, that Western land? Not there, not there, my child. Is it in the dominions of Brigham Young The most married man that is left unhung, Where every man that likes can go And get forty wives or more you know, Where “saints” are plenty with “cheeks” sublime, Can that be the gay and festive clime?―― Not there, not there, my child! Is it where Nevada’s mountains rise From the Alkali plains which we all despise, Where a man may beg, or borrow, or steal, Yet he often will fail to get a square meal, Where the rocks are full of silver ore―― Is it there we’ll find that Western Shore, Not there, not there, my child. Eye hath not seen it my verdant youth, Tongue cannot name it and speak the truth; For though you go to the farthest state And stand on the rocks by the Golden Gate, They’ll point you across the Western sea To the land whence cometh the “heathen Chinee,” Saying “’Tis there my child.” _American Paper._ ―――― THE HAPPY LAND. I hear them speak of a Happy Land, Is it at the Gaiety――Vaudeville――Strand―― Or where, secure from the public gaze, Mr. Buckstone privately Hamlet plays? Is it where the acting gives go and life To Wilkie Collins’s “Man and Wife?” ――” Not there, not there, my friend!” “Is it where the Lord Chamberlain weakly tries To interfere with the actors’ guise, Because it gave us a portrait true Of the gentle Ayrton, and Lowe, and you[50]―― Though you now as three music hall cads appear, Which makes the satire much more severe?” ――“Not there, not there, my friend!” “Is it where Jack Sheppard they fail to hang; Where Macbeth’s broad Scotch has a German twang; Or where many a bonny and bouncing lass To Nature holds up a Bohemian glass; Where Rosa Dartle’s consummate skill Inclines you to hiss her against your will?” ――“Not there, not there, my friend!” “I have not seen it, my gentle bore, For five or six years――or rather more, Its joys are calmer by far than those That the Ministerial Bench bestows, For the scene of the Happy Land is laid In Opposition’s refreshing shade, ――It is there, it is there, my friend!” _Fun._ ―――― THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. THEY sucked their pap spoons side by side, They filled one house with shines―― Their graves are lying severed wide, By many railway lines. The same nurse tied the plain night cap At evening, on each brow: She gave each naughty child a slap―― Where are those screamers now? One by the broad gauge line which goes To Exeter, is laid. They ran into a luggage train, And mincemeat of him made. The Eastern Counties line hath one―― He sleeps his last long sleep―― Near where an engine chose, slap off, A viaduct to leap. Another went from Euston-square By an ill-fated train; They buried him at Coventry, With others of the slain. And one――’neath her an axle broke, And stayed life’s running sand―― She perished on the Dover line―― The last of that bright band. And parted thus they lie, who play’d At hop-scotch in the court. Who after every cab that passed, Cried “Whip behind,” in sport. Who played upon the Nigger bones, And jumped Jim Crow with glee―― Oh, steam! if thou wert everywhere, Where would poor mortals be? _The Man in the Moon_. Edited by Albert Smith, Vol. II. ――――:o:―――― “HE NEVER WROTE AGAIN.” His hope of publishing went down, The sweeping press rolled on; But what was any other crown To him who hadn’t one? He lived――for long may man bewail When thus he writes in vain; Why comes not death to those who fail?―― He never wrote again! Books were put out, and “had a run,” Like coinage from the Mint; But which could fill the place of one, That one they wouldn’t print? Before him passed, in calf and sheep, The thoughts of many a brain: His lay with the rejected heap:―― He never wrote again. He sat where men who wrote went round, And heard the rhymes they built; He saw their works most richly bound, With portraits and in gilt. Dreams of a volume all forgot Were blent with every strain; A thought of one they issued not:―― He never wrote again! Minds in that time closed o’er the trace Of books once fondly read, And others came to fill their place, And were perused instead. Tales which young girls had bathed in tears Back on the shelf were lain: Fresh ones came out for other years:―― _He_ never wrote again! From _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey, Boston, U.S., 1854. ――――:o:―――― FISH HAVE THEIR TIMES TO BITE. “_Leaves have their time to fall._” MRS. HEMANS. Fish have their times to bite―― The bream in summer, and the trout in spring, That time the hawthorn buds are white, And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering. The pike bite free when fall The autumn leaves before the north-wind’s breath, And tench in June, but there are all―― There are all seasons for the gudgeon’s death. The trout his ambush keeps Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne’s eddying pools, And patient still in Marlow deeps For the shy barbel wait expectant fools. Many the perch but small That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought Like Cookham’s pike, but, oh; in all―― Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught. The old man angles still For roach, and sits red faced and fills his chair; And perch, the boy expects to kill, And roves and fishes here and fishes there. The child but three feet tall For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply His bending hazel, but by all―― Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die. C. From _College Rhymes_, Oxford. W. Mansell, 1861. [Illustration] CHARLES KINGSLEY. The following parodies have come to hand since Part 30 was published. “THE THREE FISHERS.” Three anglers went down to fish Sunbury Weir, To fish Sunbury Weir, when the morn did break; But though the morn broke, so bright and so clear, Ne’er a one of those three a fish did take. For though a South wind the trout likes best, It’s sure to be North, or East, or West, To set the angler groaning. Three anglers got down from Sunbury Weir, Where they had been fishing from break of day; Yet though their bag from trout was clear, A fourteen-pounder they’d seen at play. For though a cold wind the trout likes least, That day half-a-gale blew up from the East, To set those anglers groaning. They tried that old trout at Sunbury Weir, With a choice selection of baits, so fine; But although that fish was devoid of fear, With that cold East wind he declined to dine. So away they sped from Sunbury Weir, And out came the trout when the coast was clear, And gobbled the bleaks “in the gloamin’.” OTTER. From _The Angler’s Journal_, May 1, 1886. ―――― THREE FRESHERS. Three Freshers went sailing out into the street, Out into the street for a ‘town and gown,’ Each thought of the foeman he longed to meet And the Bull-dogs stood watching them out in the town. Through ‘High’ and ‘Broad’ the Proctor must sweep, And the fifth of November is hard to keep When such myrmidons are roaming. Three times that night near the Magdalen tower, Did the dim gas lamps show a ‘town and gown’; They looked out for squalls, but alas! for the hour That the Proctor came up and was neatly knocked down; For men their hands from Proctors must keep Though blows be sudden, and black-eyes cheap, When our gallant blades are roaming. Three heroes set out for their native strands, When the morning gleam saw them all ‘sent down.’ And the tradesmen of Oxford are wringing their hands For those who may never come home to the town. And Fathers storm, and Mothers must weep, And the Freshers have sworn a great oath they will keep Of goodbye to the fifth and its roamings. A.H.S. Univ. Coll., Oxford. ―――― THREE WOMEN. Three women went sailing out into the street To the brown-stone front where the red flag hung. They jostled the crowd all day on their feet, While “going and going and gone” was sung. For women must go where bargains are had. And buy old trash, if never so bad, And husbands must ever be groaning. Three husbands, all hungry, went homeward to dine, But when they arrived there was nothing to eat. Three women, all crazy and feeling so fine, Were gabbling of bargains along in the street For women must talk of bargains they buy. And homes must suffer, and babes must cry, And husbands must ever be groaning. Three women were showing their husbands with glee Their bargains at prices that never were beat, Three husbands, all starving and mad as could be Were tossing the bargains out into the street. For men don’t know when bargains are cheap And women, poor creatures do nothing but weep, And husbands must ever be groaning. ANONYMOUS. ―――― THE UMPIRE’S VALEDICTORY. (_After a Base-ball Match._) An umpire went sallying out into the east, Out into the east, ere the sun went down. He thought of the club that loved him least And the quickest way to leave the town. But men must chin and boys must cheer, And the umpire’s lot is hard and drear, Along with the crowd and its groaning. A man stood up and called out Foul! And called out Foul! with an angry frown; Then made for the gate with a sudden howl, While the mob with bricks tried to knock him down. For men will fight and boys will jeer, And luck is best when the gate is near, To escape from the crowd and its groaning. A doctor was working the best he knew how. The best he knew how, as the sun went down, He thought as he plastered the broken brow Of the awful yells and the missiles thrown. For clubs will play and mobs will fight, And the umpire’s lucky if he lives till night To escape from the crowd and its groaning. _United States Paper._ [Illustration] Robert Southey, POET LAUREATE. _Born August_ 12, 1774. _Died March_ 21, 1843. [Illustration:A]lthough this voluminous author was Poet-Laureate from 1813 until his death, and produced a great quantity of poetry, yet only a very few of what he would have considered his minor poems, ever achieved any success. Of his more ambitious works, some of which contain passages of undoubted power and originality, even the very names are now generally forgotten, or only remembered in connection with the Satires and Lampoons of his political adversaries. Southey commenced life as an ardent Republican, and wrote poems which were ridiculed by Tories such as George Canning; he concluded by becoming a Tory himself and was mercilessly satirised by Whigs, such as Byron and Macaulay. It will therefore be necessary to divide the parodies of his poems into three distinct classes, the non-Political, the early Political, and the later Political. Of Southey’s non-political poems the best known are “_The Cataract of Lodore_,” “_The Battle of Blenheim_,” and “_You are Old Father William_,” of each of which there are many amusing parodies. But before treating of these a few imitations of detached passages taken from Southey’s epic poems may be given. These epics were never very popular, and are now almost forgotten, yet they contain some beautiful descriptive poetry, as for instance the opening lines of “_Thalaba the Destroyer_”:―― “How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain Breaks the serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths, Beneath her steady ray The desert-circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky, How beautiful is night!” Amongst the “Paper Money Lyrics” contained in the poems of Thomas Love Peacock, there is an imitation of these lines, commencing―― “How troublesome is day! It calls us from our sleep away; It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake, And sends us forth to keep or break Our promises to pay. How troublesome is day!” The poem deals with questions of Banking, paper money, and other very unpoetical topics:―― Come listen to my lay, While I the wild and wond’rous tale array, How Fly-by-Night went down, And set a bank up in a country town; How like a king his head he reared, And how the coast of cash he cleared, And how one night he disappeared, When many a scoffer jibed and jeered; And many an old man rent his beard; And many a young man cursed and railed; And many a woman wept and wailed; And many a mighty heart was quailed; And many a wretch was caged and jailed; Because great Fly-by-Night had failed. And many a miserable sinner Went without his Sunday dinner, Because he had not metal bright, And waved in vain before the butcher’s sight, The promises of Fly-by-night. And little Jackey Horner Sate sulking in the corner, And in default of Christmas pie Whereon his little thumb to try, He put his finger in his eye, And blubbered long and lustily. * * * * * From _The Works of Thomas Love Peacock_. R. BENTLEY & SON, LONDON, 1875. ―――― The well-known antiquarian writer, and Editor, Mr. Edward Walford, M.A., has recently published, at his own expense, many interesting records of the Charterhouse School, together with some poems and parodies which will greatly interest old Carthusians. From amongst them Mr. Walford has kindly allowed me to select the following:―― ODE IN IMITATION OF SOUTHEY. How beautiful is green Where grass has every colour but its own, Black, dingy, dirty brown, with noxious weeds o’ergrown. Lo, the trees Shaking and waving in the autumn breeze; Black as the Devil, Father of evil, With soot and smoke, Enough to choke Any unfortunate who walks below, When the winds blow; So beautiful the trees, How beautiful the Cods.[51] Each one in chapel nods, While Pritchett drawls the lessons of the day, And long-drawn snores proclaim their senses dozed away; Till the organ’s thund’ring peal Wakes again their slumb’ring zeal; And soon no more condemned with sleep to grapple, They toddle out of chapel, So beautiful are Cods. Thou passer by, Who traversed the famed Carthusian square, Raise thy admiring eye, And view the gloom which long inhabits there; And as thou journeyest on thy way, Do say, Within that wall How beautiful is all! ――――:o:―――― Of all the amusing poems in _The Rejected Addresses_ perhaps the only one which can be truly styled a _parody_ is _The Rebuilding_, which closely mimics the Funeral of Arvalan in Southey’s _Curse of Kehama_. Not only is the metre closely followed, but James Smith, the author of this particular “Address,” has shown great ingenuity in bringing in the same characters as Southey has introduced into his poem. Lord Jeffrey, writing in _The Edinburgh Review_, said, “_The Rebuilding_ is in the name of Mr. Southey, and is one of the best in the collection. It is in the style of the Kehama of that multifarious author, and is supposed to be spoken in the character of one of his Glendoveers. The imitation of the diction and measure, is nearly perfect; and the descriptions are as good as the original.” It may here be mentioned that Southey borrowed his description of the Glendoveers from the “Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins,” published in London, in 1751. THE REBUILDING. ――――“Per audaces nova dithyrambos Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur Lege solutis.” HORAT. [_Spoken by a Glendoveer._] I am a blessed Glendoveer;[52] ’Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear. Midnight, yet not a nose From Tower-Hill to Piccadilly snored! Midnight, yet not a nose[53] From Indra drew the essence of repose! See with what crimson fury, By Indra fann’d, the god of fire ascends the walls of Drury! Tops of houses, blue with lead, Bend beneath the landlord’s tread. Master and ’prentice, serving man and lord, Nailor and tailor, Grazier and brazier, Through streets and alleys pour’d―― All, all abroad to gaze, And wonder at the blaze. Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee, Mounted on roof and chimney,[54] The mighty roost, the mighty stew To see; As if the dismal view Were but to them a Brentford jubilee. Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton (By Greeks call’d Apollo)[55] Hollow Sounds from thy harp proceed; Combustible as reed, The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs: From Drury’s top, dissever’d from thy pegs, Thou troublest, Humblest, Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high: While, by thy somerset excited, fly Ten million Billion Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky. Now come the men of fire to quench the fires: To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run, Hope gallops first, and second Sun; On flying heel, See Hand-in-Hand O’ertake the band! View with what glowing wheel He nicks Phœnix! While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars―― Drury Lane! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! They shout and they bellow again and again. All, all in vain! Water turns steam; Each blazing beam Hisses defiance to the eddying spout: It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out! Drury Lane! Drury Lane! See, Drury Lane expires! Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more, Shorn of his ray, Surya in durance lay: The workmen heard him shout. But thought it would not pay To dig him out. When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell, Solemn as lead, Judge of the dead, Sworn foe to witticism, By men call’d criticism, Came passing by that way: Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness! Behold the rival theatre! I’ve set O.P. at her,[56] Who, like a bull-dog bold, Growls and fastens on his hold. The many-headed rabble roar in madness; Thy rival staggers: come and spy her Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire. So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one, And crossing Russell Street, He placed him on his feet ’Neath Covent Garden Dome. Sudden a sound, As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose: Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper, Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes, From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch,[57] Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches; A sea of heads roll’d roaring in the pit; On paper wings O.P.’s Reclined in lettered ease; While shout and scoff, Ya! ya! off! off! Like thunderbolt on Surya’s ear-drum fell, And seemed to paint The savage oddities of Saint Bartholomew in hell. Tears dimm’d the god of light―― “Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight; Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick. Oh! bury me again in brick; Shall I on New Drury tremble, To be O.P.’d like Kemble? No, Better remain by rubbish guarded, Than thus hubbubish groan placarded; Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick, And bury me again in brick.” Obedient Yamen Answered, “Amen,” And did As he was bid. There lay the buried god, and Time Seemed to decree eternity of lime; But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest Almighty Veeshnoo’s[58] adamantine breast: He, the preserver, ardent still To do whate’er he says he will From South-hill wing’d his way, To raise the drooping lord of day. All earthly spells the busy one o’erpower’d; He treats with men of all conditions, Poets and players, tradesmen and musicians; Nay, even ventures To attack the renters, Old and new: A list he gets Of claims and debts, And deems nought done, while aught remains to do. Yamen beheld, and withered at the sight; Long had he aimed the sunbeam to control, For light was hateful to his soul: “Go on!” cries the hellish one, yellow with spite; “Go on!” cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen, “Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca’s queen I’ll toil to undo every night.” Ye sons of song, rejoice! Veeshnoo has still’d the jarring elements, The spheres hymn music; Again the god of day Peeps forth with trembling ray, Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine, And pours at intervals a strain divine. “I have an iron yet in the fire,” cried Yamen; “The vollied flame rides in my breath, My blast is elemental death; This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces; Ingross, your deeds, assignments, leases, My breath shall every line erase Soon as I blow the blaze.” The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor, And Yamen’s visage grows blanker and blanker; The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown, And Yamen’s cheek is a russety brown: Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds; The solicitor reads, And, merit of merit! Red wax and green ferret Are fixed at the foot of the deeds! Yamen beheld and shiver’d; His finger and thumb were cramp’d; His ear by the flea in’t was bitten, When he saw by the lawyer’s clerk written, Sealed and delivered, Being first duly stamped “Now for my turn!” the demon cries, and blows A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose. Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell, Is judged in his turn; Parchment won’t burn! His schemes of vengeance are dissolved in the air Parchment wont tear! Is it not written in the Himakoot book (That mighty Baly from Kehama took) “Who blows on pounce Must the Swerga renounce?” It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh: Like as an eagle claws an asp, Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp, And hurl’d him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls, Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain, Three times as high as Meru Mountain, Which is Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul’s. Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,[59] Who a durable grave meant To dig in the pavement Of Monument-yard: To earth by the laws of attraction he flew, And he fell, and he fell To the regions of hell; Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock, And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock, Like a pebble in Carisbrook well. Now Veeshnoo turned round to a capering varlet, Array’d in blue and white and scarlet, And cried, “Oh! brown of slipper as of hat! Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!” He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth; When lo! upstarting into birth A fabric, gorgeous to behold, Outshone in elegance the old, And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, “Hail, playhouse mine!” Then, bending his head, to Surya he said: “Soon as thy maiden sister Di Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky, And through the fissures of her clouded fan Peeps at the naughty monster man Go mount yon edifice, And show thy steady face In renovated pride, More bright, more glorious than before!” But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge, Still smarted from his former singe; And to Veshnoo replied, In a tone rather gruff, “No, thank you! one tumble’s enough!” ――――:o:―――― JUSTICE. “_She hath escaped very well,” Kehama cried; “She hath escaped_ - - - _but thou art here_.” I. It chanced that at an old tobacconist’s, Outside the door a painted figure stood, A Kilted Scotchman neatly carved in wood; ’Twas new and rather good. Now Tomkins bent upon a spree, Walked down the street the various sights to see; But when the painted image Tomkins view’d, To this he sprung, to this he clung, And ran like mad along the High with this Across his shoulder swung. II. Two bobbies seized him as he turned the street, Before he was aware; He dropped the image, and with wingèd feet Shinned them, and bolted like a started hare; The angry bobbies baffled now, Unto each other vow To make it hot for any gownsmen there They meet; and Wilkins passing, full of fun, Began to chaff the bobbies; wrathful they Seized him instead, and carried him away; He neither struggled, kicked, nor tried to run, Nor the least show of opposition made, Although they grasped him with their dirty hands Courageously, for they don’t feel afraid When still their victim stands. III. Thus are they always bold when they have made Some crippled beggar old, Or unresisting girl, or boy, their prey, But somehow they are never in the way If a strong ruffian has been throwing stones, Or punching some one’s head in self-sought fray, For they are careful of their bones. IV. “The culprit hath escaped,” the bobbies cried, He hath escaped, but one is here, Will do as well; Now let us go and tell The Proctor that ’twas he; and so they went And told their story well. Next morning Wilkins gets a note, Brought by the Proctor’s man, To call upon the Proctor at his rooms With all the haste he can. V. And when he came within the Proctor’s room, Young Wilkins roused himself, And told the Proctor ’twas a lie, Invented by those blue-clad menials base; That he was in the ‘High’ Walking alone, and never even saw The wooden figure that they talked about. And that these bobbies Came and pounced on him as he walked about, Because the real culprit they Had been so baulked about. VI. The velvet-sleeved one deigned him no reply, The narrow-minded man――his gooseberry eye Looked idiotic: not the smallest part Had right and justice in his foolish heart. At last he uttered loud each measured word, Long in his breast confined, Unjust, severe, proctorial, absurd―― The index of his mind. VII. “You must go down, Away from this town, For here you would Never do any good. You have made a row, Which I cannot allow, And so I must take you, An example to make you; You must pay me a fine Of five pounds to-day, And then go away; For you must not stay, At Oxford, lest others Should follow your track; And your caution-money You’ll not get back. And now Mr. Wilkins, My words are plain, You must never again, Though it gives you pain, Come up to Oxford. If you think to do so, You think it in vain, You’ll have to obey me, Mr. Wilkins, for ever: You can go away now, Sir, And return again never.” VIII. There with those bugbears of the town Before him, stood the wretched man; There stood young Wilkins with loose-hanging gown. Was it a dream? Ah! no, He heard his sentence flow, He heard the ready bobbies lie, And felt all hope within him die. Ah! who could have believed That he the velvet-sleeved Could have so small, so weak a mind, And ever trust those worms of dust, Those banes of student kind. With indignation flashing from his eye, He left the room, nor cast one look behind. From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon. LONDON, CHAPMAN & HALL, 1874 [Illustration] THE CATARACT OF LODORE. HOW DOES THE WATER COME DOWN AT LODORE. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Here smoking and frothing, Its tumult and wrath in, It hastens along, conflicting, strong, Now striking and raging, As if a war waging, Its caverns and rocks among. Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and flinging, Showering and springing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Twining and twisting, Around and around, Collecting, disjecting, With endless rebound; Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound. Reeding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and growing, And running and stunning, And hurrying and skurrying, And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And dinning and spinning, And foaming and roaming, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And heaving and cleaving, And thundering and floundering, And falling and crawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, Dividing and gliding and sliding, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o’er, with a mighty uproar,―― And this way the water comes down at Lodore. ROBERT SOUTHEY. ――――:o:―――― BEFORE AND AFTER MARRIAGE. BEFORE. How do the Gentlemen do before marriage? Oh! then they come flattering, Soft nonsense chattering, Praising your pickling. Playing at tickling, Love verses writing, Acrostics inditing, If your finger aches, fretting, Fondling and petting, “My loving,”――“my doving,” “Petseying,”――“wetseying,” Now sighing, now dying, Now dear diamonds buying, Or yards of Chantilly, like a great big silly, Cashmere shawls――brandy balls, Oranges, apples――gloves, _Gros de Naples_, Sweet pretty “skuggies”――ugly pet puggies; Now with an ear-ring themselves endearing, Or squandering guineas upon _Sevignés_ Now fingers squeezing or playfully teazing, Bringing you bull’s eyes, casting you sheep’s eyes, Looking in faces while working braces; Never once heeding what they are reading, But soiling one’s hose by pressing one’s toes; Or else so zealous, and nice, and jealous of all the fellows, Darting fierce glances, if ever one dances, with a son of France’s; Or finding great faults, and threatening assaults whenever you “Valtz;” Or fuming and fussing enough for a dozen if you romp with your cousin; Continually stopping, when out-a-shopping, and bank notes dropping, Not seeking to win money, calling it “tin” money, and promising pin-money; Liking picnics at Twickenham, off lovely cold chicken, ham and champagne to quicken ’em; Detesting one’s walking without John too goes stalking, to prevent the men talking; Think you still in your teens, wont let you eat “greens,” and hate Crinolines; Or heaping caresses, if you curl your back tresses, or wear low-neck’d dresses; Or when up the river, almost sure to _diskiver_ that it beats all to shiver the sweet Guadalquiver; Or seeing death-fetches if the toothache one catches, making picturesque sketches of the houses of wretches; Or with loud double knocks bring from Eber’s a box, to see “BOX AND COX,” or pilfer one’s locks to mark their new socks; Or, whilst you are singing a love song so stinging, they vow they’ll be swinging, or in serpentine springing, unless to them clinging your’ll go wedding-ringing, and for life mend their linen. Now the gentlemen sure I’ve no wish to disparage, But this is the way they go on _before_ marriage. AFTER. How do they do after marriage? Oh, then nothing pleases ’em, But everything teases ’em; Then they’re grumbling and snarling―― You’re a “fool,” not a “darling”; Though they’re rich as the _Ingies_, They’re the stingiest of stingies; And what is so funny, They’ve _never_ got money; Only ask them for any And they haven’t a penny; But what passes all bounds, On themselves they’ll spend pounds―― Give guineas for lunch Off real turtle and punch; Each week a noise brings about, when they pitch all the things about Now bowing in mockery, now smashing the crockery; Scolding and swearing, their bald heads tearing, Storming and raging past all assuaging. Heaven preserve us! it makes one so nervous, To hear the door slam to, be called simple ma’am too: (I wonder if Adam called Mrs. Eve _Madam_;) As a matter of course they’ll have a divorce; Or “my Lord Duke” intends to send you home to your friends; Allow ten pounds a quarter for yourself and your daughter; Though you strive all your might you can do nothing right; While the maids――the old song――can do nothing wrong; “Ev’ry shirt wants a button”! Every day they’ve cold mutton; They’re always a-flurrying one, or else they’re a-hurrying one, or else they’re a-worrying one; Threatening to smother your dear sainted mother, or kick your big brother; After all your fine doings, your strugglings and stewings――why “the house is in ruins!” Then the wine goes like winking, and they cannot help thinking you’ve taken to drinking; They’re perpetually rows keeping, ’cause out of house-keeping they’re in bonnets their spouse keeping; So when they’ve been meated if with pies they’re not treated, they vow that they’re cheated; Then against Ascot Races, and all such sweet places, they set their old faces; And they’ll never leave town, nor to Broadstairs go down, though with bile you’re quite brown; For their wife, they unwilling are, after cooing and billing her, to stand a cap from a Milliner――e’en a paltry twelve shillinger; And it gives them the vapours to witness the capers, of those bowers and scrapers the young linen drapers; Then to add to your woes, they say nobody knows how the money all goes, but they pay through the nose for the dear children’s clothes; Though you strive and endeavour, they’re so mightily clever, that please them you’ll never, till you leave them for ever!――Yes! the hundredth time sever――“_for ever and ever_”!! Now the gentlemen sure I’ve no wish to disparage, But this is the way they go on _after_ marriage. From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac_, for 1850. * * * * * HOW THE DAUGHTERS COME DOWN AT DUNOON. _“There standyth on one side of Dunoon, a hill or moleock of passynge steepnesse, and right slipperie withal; whereupon, in gaye times, ye youths and ye maidens of that towne do exceedingly disport themselves and take their pleasaunce; runnynge both uppe and downe with great glee and joyous- nesse, to the much en- dangerment of their fair nekkes.”_ KIRKE’S _Memoirs_. How do the daughters Come down at Dunoon? Daintily, slidingly, Gingerly, slippingly, Tenderly, trippingly, Fairily, skippingly, Glidingly, clippingly, Dashing and flying, And clashing and shying, And starting and bolting, And darting and jolting, And rushing and crushing, And leaping and creeping. Feathers a-flying all――bonnets untying all―― Crinolines rapping and flapping and slapping all, Balmorals dancing and glancing, entrancing all, Feats of activity―― Nymphs on declivity―― Sweethearts in ecstacies―― Mothers in vexaties―― Lady-loves whisking and frisking and clinging on True lovers puffing and blowing and springing on, Flushing and blushing and wriggling and giggling on, Teasing and pleasing and wheezing and squeezing on, Everlastingly falling and bawling and sprawling on, Flurrying and worrying and hurrying and skurrying on, Tottering and staggering and lumbering and slithering on, Any fine afternoon About July or June That’s how the daughters Come down at Dunoon! From _Puck on Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley Pennell―― London, Chatto and Windus. ―――― HOW DOES THE DRUNKARD GO DOWN TO THE TOMB? Here he comes crawling, And there he lies sprawling, Here growling and muttering, His gloomy thoughts uttering, He totters along, with passions so strong, Now striking and raging. Or wordy war waging, His drunken companions among. Sitting and drinking, ogling and winking, Rising and leaping, peering and peeping, Humming and singing, swelling and flinging, Turning and twisting, around and around, Hallooing and cooing, with endless rebound; Sparring and fighting, Lewd pieces reciting, Blundering, thundering, Disgusting and deafening the ear with the sound. Laughing and scoffing, sneering and jeering, Hissing and kissing, sporting and courting, Spouting and shouting, rhyming and chiming, Smoking and joking, jesting, detesting, Huffing and puffing, bouncing and pouncing, Sweating and betting, winning and dinning, Slapping and rapping, whipping and skipping, Scuffling and shuffling, rattling and battling, Ranting and panting, blustering and flustering, Reading, receding, With antic so frantic, Conceited, pedantic. Jumping and bumping and thumping, Dancing and glancing and prancing, Bawling and squalling and calling, Chattering and shattering and battering, Scaring and swearing and tearing, Tiring, persevering, The fumes are expiring; Money gone, credit none, Kicked about, bolted out. Staggering, swaggering, whirling, twirling, Wheeling, reeling, tumbling, grumbling, Pondering, wandering, moping, groping, Here he goes with broken nose, Battered face, sad grimace, Chairs he crashes, crockery smashes, Wife he thrashes, children lashes, Passions deadly, such a medley. Sighing, crying, snoring, roaring, Groaning, moaning, sleeping, weeping. Screaming, dreaming, screeching, retching All the night, till morning light; Then on waking, head is aching, Shaking, quaking, shivering, quivering, Whining, pining, quailing, wailing, He seems to see spirits dire, With eyes of fire, and fiendish glee, Mocking at his misery. Yet spite of all his pain And woes, he goes And seeks it yet again. To himself he’s a fool, To liquor a slave, To the landlord a tool, To his friends he’s a knave, And he makes his own winding-sheet, digs his own grave. Cut down in his bloom, He seals his own doom, And this way the drunkard goes down to the tomb. ANONYMOUS. ―――― ALL THE LUXURIES OF THE SEASON. How do the jolly days Pass in the holidays? Joking, and smoking, In Wales or at Woking, And riding, and hunting, And lazily punting, Canoeing, and boating, And swimming, and floating, And using in bathing, The sea as a plaything, And watching with glasses Each ship as she passes; And punning, and rhyming, And glacier-climbing, And fishing and shooting: New theories mooting In desolate islands, Or up in the Highlands; And yachting, rope-knotting, And random notes jotting, And sailing and baling, And picnic-regaling, Deerstalking and walking, And merrily talking, And skipping and prancing, And glancing and dancing, And flirting, exerting Each talent diverting; And playing at racquets In white flannel jackets; Golf, cricket, and touring, Hard labour enduring, In quest of new pleasure, And spending your leisure In dicing and gambling, And quietly rambling, And trudging with trouble O’er turf and o’er stubble, Exploding your cartridge At grouse or at partridge; Returning to table, And feeling well able To eat a whole elk up Washed down with moselle cup And drinking, and eating, At each merry meeting, Beef, venison, and mutton, Not caring a button, Because indigestion Is out of the question; Or, better and better, Avoiding a debtor. (Perhaps growing pale, if You think of a bailiff,) And audience attracting By Amateur acting, And singing, and playing, And modestly staying At Ramsgate or Margate, Destroying a target By accurate aiming, And sporting and gaming And draining the bubbly can Of beer-bearing publican, Chastising a slow moke With cudgel of holm-oak, Your animal thrashing, And beating and lashing, To carry his master A little bit faster; At croquet excelling, And tale of love telling To charming young lady With hair black and raidy; Oh! sweetly the jolly days Pass in the holidays! From _Banter_, edited by G. A. Sala. September 23, 1867 ―――― HOW THE HORSES COME ROUND AT THE CORNER. How do the horses come round at The Corner? When eyes are all straining, To see which is gaining, And far-distant humming Grows louder and clearer,――Grows stronger and nearer. “They’re off!” “They are coming!” “Who leads?” “Black and red!”――“No! Green, by a head!” “The Earl!” “No, the Lady!”――” Typhœus looks shady!” “Orion! Orion,――To live or to die on!” “Twenty pounds to a crown――On the little Blue Gown.” “I’ll venture my whole in――That colt by Tom Bowline!” “Paul Jones!” “Rosicrucian!” “Green Sleeve!” “Restitution!” “Le Sarrazin!” “Pace!” “It’s Mercury’s race!” Then on they come lashing, and slashing, and dashing, Their colours all flashing like lightning-gleams gashing The darkness, where, clashing, the thunder is crashing! With whipping and thrashing, With crowding and smashing, With pressing and stirring, With lifting and spurring, With pulling and striving, With pushing and driving, With kicking and sporting, With neighing and snorting, With frisking and whisking, With racing and chasing, With straining and gaining, With longing and thronging, With plunging and lunging, With fretting and sweating, With bustling, and hustling, and justling, With surging, and urging and scourging, With rushing, and brushing, and crushing, With scattering, and pattering, and clattering, With hurrying, and scurrying, and flurrying, and worrying, With sliding, and gliding, and riding, and striding, With crying, and flying, and shying, and plying, With tying, and vying, and trying, and hieing! Till rapidly spinning, The ranks quickly thinning, The crowd is beginning To see which is winning:―― Some faces grow brighter――and some grow forlorner: And that’s how the horses come round at The Corner! _Fun_, May 30, 1868. ―――― MAY IN LINCOLNSHIRE. (_After the manner of Southey’s Cataract of Lodore._) What are the chief delights of May―― This season, verdant, sweet, and gay? The leafy trees, the fragrant flowers, The genial sun, the reviving showers, The feathered songsters of the grove―― All nature redolent of love. So poets write, and write it true; Alas! there’s a prosaic view, Dwellings are turned quite inside out; The household madly rush about―― Cleaning and changing, Counting and ranging, Painting and lining, Tinting and priming, Stirring and mixing, Glueing and fixing, Mounting and glazing, Hauling and raising, Thatching and tiling, Crowding and piling, Dragging and trailing, Sprigging and nailing, Stitching and lining, Twisting and twining, Turning and clipping, Sorting and ripping, Fing’ring and thumbing, Sticking and gumming, Stretching and climbing, Draining and griming, Rembling[60] and raving,[61] Tewing[62] and taving,[63] Noising and clatting,[64] Rightling and scratting,[65] Sanding and grinding, Fussing and finding, From garret to ground No peace to be found! Slaving and laving, Shoving and moving, Working and shirking, Lifting and shifting, Soaping and groping, Washing and splashing, Routing and clouting, Messing and pressing, Bending and rending, Greasing and squeezing, Kneeling and wheeling, Humming and drumming, Pailing and baling, Lugging and tugging, Laughing and chaffing, Dusting and thrusting, Tripping and dripping, Unbedding, blackleading, Upsetting and wetting, They come with their brooms, Invading the rooms, Carry off all the books, In spite of black looks, Such confusion and riot, Destruction to quiet! And filling, and swilling, and spilling; And mopping, and flopping, and slopping; And racing, and chasing, and placing; And hustling, and rustling, and bustling; And holding, and folding, and scolding; And sudding, and flooding, and thudding; And banging, and clanging, and hanging; And clapping, and rapping, and frapping; And pasting, and hasting, and wasting; Inspecting, selecting, rejecting; Varnishing, tarnishing, garnishing; Hurrying, scurrying, flurrying; Bothering, pothering, smothering; Unrusting, adjusting, disgusting; Clattering, spattering, chattering; Whitening, tightening, brightening; Ransacking, attacking, unpacking; Reviewing, renewing, and doing. Charing, and airing, hammering, and clamouring; And mending, and sending, and spending, and ending; And tacking, and blacking, and cracking, and packing; And oiling, and soiling, and moiling, and toiling; And creaking and squeaking, and reeking, and seeking; And racking, and sacking, and smacking, and clacking; And thumping, and bumping, and lumping, and pumping; And wrapping, and strapping, and tapping, and clapping; And heaping, and steeping, and creeping, and sweeping; And wringing, and dinging, and bringing, and singing; And knocking, and rocking, and flocking, and shocking; And jamming, and cramming, and slamming, and ramming; And rubbing, and scrubbing, and tubbing, and grubbing; And huddling, and muddling, and puddling, and ruddling;[66] And patching, and matching, and catching, and snatching; And rushing, and gushing, and slushing, and brushing; And rumbling, and jumbling, and tumbling, and grumbling; Thus, in the manner that I have been telling, May-fever spreads over the whole of the dwelling. This clever parody appeared, anonymously, in _Once a Week_, June 8, 1872. ―――― THE BOAT-RACE. (_A Retrospect._) How do the ’Varsities come to the Race?―― All a-rowing, and knowing their pluck they are showing, And blowing, and going the deuce of a pace; With the ending depending on strong arms extending, And bending oars rending the waves in the chase. With a spurting, exerting their muscles, and hurting Their hearts, say the Doctors (but that’s a rare case), With too much book-making, and arms next day aching―― And that’s how the Varsities come to the Race? How do the Ladies come down to the Race?―― With a rustle and bustle, and zest for the tussle, With a hustle and jostle, and tearing of lace. With a gushing and blushing, and little feet rushing, And pushing and crushing to get a good place. With a petting and getting the odds in the betting, And letting their fretting be seen in their face: With a swarming so charming, in toilettes alarming, And that’s how the Ladies come down to the Race! How do the Gentlemen come to the Race?―― With a walking and talking, and pleasant “dear”-stalking; Uncorking and forking out “pegs” from a case. With a smoking and joking, and badinage-poking, Invoking the Stroke in the boat that they “place.” With a laughing, Bass-quafting, and eke shandy-gaffing And chaffing the cads till they’re black in the face, And hurraying, and laying the odds――and then paying―― And that’s how the Gentlemen come to the Race! How do the Roughs and Cads come to the Race?―― With a cheering and beering, and sneering and jeering; “My dear”-ing and leering at each pretty face. With a scowling, and fouling the air with their howling, And prowling and growling, and grin and grimace, With a swearing and tearing, and blue rosettes wearing, And a daring uncaring what things they abase―― And a reeling, and feeling for fighting, and stealing―― And that’s how the Roughs and Cads come to the Race! _Punch_, April 27, 1878. ―――― READY FOR THE START. Here they come sparkling, There they go darkling, A tide that flows onward conflicting and strong: Some betting, some fretting At losing relations At choked railway stations, And storming and raging, And hansoms engaging, Or aught upon wheels that will drag them along; While tramps, the path keeping, Are running and leaping, And slinking and creeping, Eddying and whisking, Panting and frisking, Slouching and twisting, Planning for trysting When reaching the ground, Collecting, expecting Where flats may be found. Smiting and fighting Some crowds fun delighting, Strong language abounding, Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound; Feeding and speeding, And shockingly mocking, And tripping and skipping, And sipping and whipping, And nipping and slipping, Quivering and shivering, And vainly endeavouring By pushing and rushing, And craving and raving, And waving and staving, And tossing and crossing, And working and jerking, And wriggling and giggling, And hugging and mugging, And boring and roaring, And thundering and blundering, And hauling, and falling, and sprawling, And frequently naughty names calling, And striving and hiving and driving, And sounding and rounding and bounding, And grumbling and tumbling, much humbling, And chattering and battering and shattering, And thumping and bumping, and plumping and stumping, And flashing and splashing, and dashing and crashing, Such sounds and such motions for evermore blending, Till at last, with a tumult that seems never ending, By train, carriage, drag, coach, cab, wheelbarrow, cart, The thousands reach Epsom in time for the start. _Funny Folks_, June 8, 1878. ―――― THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. (Lord Dufferin has suggested that Ontario and New York should combine to make a Public International Park at Niagara Falls. All visitors to the World’s Wonder must hope that his proposition may succeed.) “How does the water Come down at Niagara?” Somebody asked me Thus once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme How the Rapids’ broad tracts And the Falls might be seen. So without hesitation I made explanation And gave him the facts, For I feared he was green. When you leave your hotel, To enjoy the sight well, And, in wonder At the thunder, To Goat Island go, Fifty cents is the pittance They charge for admittance To gaze at the show. Again you pay fifty (Unless you are thrifty) To take a not very Smooth trip o’er the ferry; And the victim soon finds It is three times as much to the Cave of the Winds. It is twenty cents here, and it’s forty cents there; Half dollars and more when you’ve money to spare. At all the good places For seeing the way In which the flood races, There’s something to pay. Wherever you walk, As a bird by a hawk, You are worried and flurried By beggarly louts, Importunate touts, And hackmen who, swarming around, Waylay you at starting, And, never departing, Keep stopping, confusing, Annoying, abusing, And plotting and scheming, And often blaspheming, And pumping and bumping, And dunning and stunning, And shouting and spouting, And pressing and guessing, And beckoning and reckoning, And following and holloaing, All over the ground; Although so inviting, Far, far from delighting, Confounding, astounding, Pestering and maddening the ear with their sound. So with a sensation of great irritation, Of native extortion quite out of proportion, Of vanishing dollars and rather damp collars, Of guides never ending, but always attending, Wherever your fugitive footsteps are wending, You may get, at a cost that will cause you to stagger, a Precious dear sight of the Falls of Niagara. _Funny Folks_, November 23, 1878. ―――― HOW THE CUSTOMERS COME TO THE SANDOWN BAZAAR. (The following parody was written for the programme of the Sandown Bazaar, Isle of Wight, in 1879. With a few verbal alterations it might easily be applied to a similar purpose in any other locality.) _If “Robert the Rhymer” were alive, I’d implore, Forgiveness, for trying to copy “Lodore.”_ “What things do you want For the Sandown Bazaar?” My kind friends have ask’d me Thus, time after time. Moreover some wish’d me To tell them in rhyme, So what with one friend, And then with another, Eagerly urging The request of each other; I promised to tell them What things we required For the Sandown Bazaar From near and afar, As many a time We have had them before; And to tell them in rhyme, For of rhymes I have store; Though ’tis not my vocation, But their recreation That makes me thus sing, Because I am anxious To please in this thing. From sources which well In the heart’s deepest cell; From fountains In the mountains Of thought and good will. Through post and through rail We expect things to come; Then rest for awhile In some kind friends home; And thence at departing After effort at starting, They will quickly proceed, With a general stampede, To the Hall of the Town. Helter-skelter, Hurry-scurry, Every one seems In a terrible flurry. Hammering and clammering, The tumult and banging, Making a furious Terrible roar. ’Mid all this confusion, The boxes are placed On the Town Hall floor. Then arms which are strong Drag them along To the stalls, where there falls On the faces of “graces”―― All found in their places, A light of delight. Laughing and talking, Smiling and walking, Turning and twisting, Walking and frisking, Soon all are agreed That a sight to delight in, At last is displayed, As the stalls are arrayed In articles useful and fancy, As if by the aid of necromancy. Tatting and platting, Matting and blacking, And crochet and croquet And crewls and jewels, And baskets and caskets, And brackets and rackets, And lustres and dusters, And feathers and leathers, And towels and trowels, And cradles and ladles, And sables and tables, And mittens and kittens, And dresses and presses, And dishes and fishes, And cases and braces, And pencils and lentils, And pictures and tinctures, And bangles and mangles, And brushes and thrushes, And coffee and toffee, And bonnets and sonnets, And pickles and sickles, And papers and scrapers, And slippers and nippers, And sashes and taches, And money and honey. And screens and machines, And ferns and epergnes, And coseys and poseys, And lamps and stamps, And games and frames, And spoons and balloons, And quilts and stilts, And yachts and whatnots, And telephones and microphones, And phonographs and photographs, And oleographs and chromographs, And telescopes and stereoscopes, And pinafores and battledores, And lemonade and gingerade, And cheffoniers and caffetiers, And letter racks and knickknacks, And cocoatina and farina, And barometers and thermometers, And refrigerators and perambulators, And chrysanthemums and kettle-drums, And pelargoniums and harmoniums, And canaries and cassowaries, And clocks and socks and frocks. And stools and wools and tools, And bibs and cribs and nibs. And rugs and jugs and mugs, And muffs and cuffs and stuffs, And caps and maps and scraps, And thus without ceasing and ever increasing, I might go on telling what things we’ll be selling, If they only come here, from near and afar, To make most successful the SANDOWN BAZAAR! W. J. CRAIG. 1879. ―――― In November, 1879, the Editor of _The World_ selected Southey’s _Cataract of Lodore_ as the original for a Parody Competition, on the subject of THE HOME RULERS, and the following parodies were printed:―― FIRST PRIZE. Is it how the Home Rulers, Make spaches, me boys? Whist! I’ll tell ye the tale In a ‘three-cornered’ rhyme, Wid the laste taste, iv brogue―― Be the mortial, its prime! Where they riz thim quare clothes, Sorra, one iv me knows! Their wondherful ‘caubeens,’ Their illegant ‘dhudeens,’ Their rings and sich things, But we saw them wid joy Comin’ over the bogs, In sich beautiful togs, Each a broth iv a boy. So they kem walking, Chattering and talking, Wid ivery long word That iver ye heard, Blarneying and fighting, Dividing, uniting; Wid the finest iv action Explaining and proving, All scruples removing, To their own satisfaction. Stamping, hurrahing, Erin-go-bragh-ing, Jumping and pushing, Wildly ‘hoorooshing,’ Shaking shillalies, Brandishing ‘dailies,’ Tearing their hair, Sawing the air (Be jabers, ’twas quare!) Storming and raving, Deluding, ‘desaving――’ Demosthenes would have been struck with despair. Objecting, correcting, Defying, denying, Remarking and barking, And shouting and spouting, Rebelling and yelling and telling, And growling and howling and scowling, Deriding, deciding, and chiding and hiding, Rejecting, reflecting, projecting, directing, Refusing, abusing, confusing, amusing, An’ taching and praching and shaking and spaking, Wid the gift of the gab such a shindy awaking, That the author of mischief might listen wid joy―― That’s the way the Home Rulers make spaches, me boy. (_Miss Story._) FABULA SED VERA. SECOND PRIZE. _How do the Home Rulers behave in the House._ Here they come broguing, Together colloquing, Here jangling and wrangling, The Queen’s English mangling, Staircase and hall and lobby along: Execrating, dilating, On methods of baiting, The Sassenach foe for their fancied wrong. Then rising and bawling, Caterwauling and squalling, Perspiring, untiring, And sputtering and spluttering, With ceaseless outpour, Blustering and flustering, Explanation mistrusting, A sight full disgusting, Amazing, gorge-raising, Half crazing the House by their senseless uproar. For dry rot eternal Commend me to Parnell: For bosh by the gallon, Go listen to Callan; Like a train in a tunnel Is the voice of O’Donnell; For imbecile vigour Unrivalled is Biggar. Nagging and bragging, And canting and ranting, Speech-prolonging, sing-songing. Face-contorting and snorting, And stranger espying, In gallery prying, Mispronouncing and bouncing and flouncing, Impeding Bill-reading proceeding, And scorning the dawning of morning, Rage inducing, time-losing, abusing, Naught-revering but jeering and sneering. Unremitting, late sitting, straw-splitting, and twitting, Body-swaying, inveighing, and braying, and neighing; Blue-book spouting and shouting, and doubting and pouting; Ear-shattering, dirt-spattering, and clattering and smattering, And so never stopping, but always upcropping, Fresh batches in-dropping to keep up the ball, Disloyal Obstructionist bores one and all; From the start of the year till the shooting of grouse―― This is how the Home Rulers behave in the House. (_C. L. Graves._) TROT. ―――― Here they come wrangling, And there they go jangling, Here mumbling and fumbling, With tumult and grumbling, They wander about in trouble and doubt; Now calling and squalling, As if they were brawling, With many an angry shout. Storming and groaning, Scolding and moaning, Their bad taste disowning, With gibes and with jeers; Fluttering and muttering While uttering their sneers. Now bouncing and flouncing, And madly denouncing, And filling the air with their wild Irish cheers. Rebelling and yelling, Haggling and naggling, Jabbering and blabbering, Sweating and fretting, Exploding and goading, Embarrassing, harrassing, Chaffing and laughing, And talking and balking, Vapouring and capering, Bewailing and railing, And sparring and jarring, And growling and howling, Discussing and fussing, Retorting and thwarting, And thrashing and slashing, Disquieting and rioting, ‘Bejaber’-ing and labouring, And hustling and bustling and tussling, And leaguing, fatiguing, and often intriguing, Provoking and joking and choking and croaking, And poking and prying, and ‘strangers espying,’ Delighting in smiting, inciting to fighting, Interfering and jeering, domineering and sneering, Exceeding good breeding by rudely impeding, And figuring and sniggering, and Parnelling and Biggaring, And always obstructing, and oft misconducting, And flaring and daring and wearing and tearing, And blundering and sundering and wondering and thundering, And clustering and mustering and flustering and blustering; Hindering and teasing, they bring without ceasing Their ‘questions’ and ‘motions’ for ever increasing, And rush to the fore with a mighty uproar, These Irish Home Rulers whose freaks we deplore. PEMBROKE. ―――― Just out of one bother Into another. Gone is the Fenian―― Here comes his brother, Worse than the other. Whence is this fooling Of Irish Home Ruling? From English invasion, At Irish persuasion, Of Paddy’s first unity In village community―― Not with impunity; From _his_ horror of digging, From _his_ habit of pigging, From _his_ love of things smooth Better far than the truth; From _our_ law-codes too drastic, From our treatment too plastic―― Neither elastic; Generally speaking, Without further seeking―― From Irish obliquities, From English iniquities; Of such-like antiquities Eight centuries reckoned From Henry II. Thence come Home Rulers, Both fools and befoolers, Here they stand spouting Our Parliament flouting; There they go shouting, At this silly season To Irish unreason Murder and treason; Lunging of gunning, Plotting at potting, Mooting of looting, Hooting of shooting, Braying of slaying, Rent-paying delaying, Some of them hedging, Scruples alleging, while treason is fledging, Hoping to get the thin end of their wedge in! Yet they cut a poor figure, This Parnell and Biggar. With all their pretension. As they linger and linger With a trembling finger On the racketty trigger Of their glorious National Irish Convention! HOYLE. _The World_, November 5, 1879. ―――― HOW THE HOME RULERS BEHAVE AT ST. STEPHEN’S. Here they come shouting, And there they sit pouting; Here fuming and raging. A wordy war waging, They stand a most irate throng Now fussing and fretting As though much regretting They cannot fight all night long! Collecting, dispersing, Rejecting and cursing, Hurrying and flurrying, Tormenting and worrying Like some snarling bow-wow; Taking delight in Abusing and fighting, Deafening all with their terrible row! Vapouring and capering, Grumbling and mumbling, And wrangling and jangling, And growling and scowling, And squalling and bawling, And jumping and thumping, And roaring and boring, And moaning and groaning, And laughing and quaffing, And hissing and missing, And tearing and swearing, And thundering and blundering, And querying and wearying, And hating, and prating, and rating, And leering, and peering, and jeering, And dancing, and glancing, and prancing, And masking, and asking, and tasking, And stammering, and hammering, and clamouring, And teasing, and wheezing, and sneezing, And stunning, and funning, and punning, And stumping, and pumping, and jumping, and thumping, And twitting, and hitting, and sitting, and flitting, And hashing, and gnashing, and lashing, and slashing, And mustering, and clustering, and flustering, and blustering, Replying, denying, and eyeing, and crying, Tallying, and dallying, and rallying, and sallying, And staring, and glaring, and daring, and flaring, And railing, and wailing, and quailing, and failing, And therefore the House they can never have peace in, The tumult unceasing, for ever increasing, Rolls restlessly on like some huge tidal wave, And this is the way the Home Rulers behave!] From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. DOVETON. Wyman and Sons, London, 1880. ―――― THE SHORE. How do Cheap Trippers Come down to the shore? * * * * * From their sources they wend In the squalid East-end; From Whitechapel, Surge and grapple Its ’Arries and its Carries. Through court and through lane They run and they shout For awhile, till they’re out By their own special train, And thence, at departing All bawling at starting, They drink and they feed; And away they proceed Through the dark tunnels, ’Mid smoke from the funnels, Where they shriek in their flurry, Helter skelter, hurry skurry, Now singing, now smoking, Now practical joking, Till, in this rapid ride On which they are bent They reach the sea-side And make their descent. * * * * * The excursion crowd strong Then plunges along, Running and leaping Over rocks creeping, Kicking and flinging, “Kiss-in-the-ring”-ing, Pulls at the whisky, Making them frisky. Smiting and fightin’―― A thing they delight in―― Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with their sound. * * * * * Sea-weeding and feeding, And mocking and shocking, And kissing and missing, And skipping and dipping, And drinking and winking, And wading and bathing, Shell picking and sticking, In mud-holes and kicking. And going a rowing, And fishing and wishing, And roaming in gloaming, Sight-seeing and teaing, And larking and sparking, Love-making and taking To beering and jeering, Donkey-riding and hiding, And squeaking and seeking. * * * * * And galloping and walloping, And wandering and maundering, Uncoating and boating and floating, Upsetting and getting a wetting, And crying and drying and spying, Immersing, dispersing, and cursing, And meeting and greeting and seating and eating, And fuddling and muddling and huddling and puddling; And so never ending, but always descending, The Cockneys for ever and ever are wending, All at once and all o’er with a mighty uproar―― And this way Cheap-Trippers come down to the shore! _Punch_, August 7, 1880. ―――― THE MEETING OF THE MEDICINAL “WATERS.” How do the Waters come down on the public? Here they come bouncing, All rivals denouncing, “Untradesmanlike falsehoods” tremendously trouncing, Swearing that hurt is meant By foe’s advertisement; Public ear stuffing, And rubbish be-puffing. Greek meeting Greek――in the crackjawish names of ’em; Polyglot rot setting forth bogus claims of ’em. Loquaciously gassing Of merits surpassing, Phosphates and carbonates, jargon empirical Blazoning each pseudo-medical miracle, Taunting and vaunting, Their praises loud chanting, And bothering and pothering And boasting, and posting On hoardings and boardings Their pictures and strictures, And much advertising, And circularising; Till one wishes the roar Of these Waters were o’er, And votes the whole business no end of a bore. _Punch_, June 4, 1881. ―――― A LEGISLATIVE CATARACT; OR HOW THE COMMONS RUSH IN THROUGH THE DOOR. “How do the members, Rush in through the door?” A curious friend asked me Last year at this time; And, furthermore, tasked me To tell him in rhyme. So anon, thus possess’d Of his wish in the matter, My muse I entreated To come when address’d And describe how those seated With clamour and clatter, Rush in through the door, And swarm over the floor When so eager they are To press to the bar And to hear the Queen’s Speech As they’ve heard it of yore! The result of my prayer To my Muse for her aid, You will see in the rare List of rhymes I have made. Tho’ the strict truth to tell, Robert Southey as well, By writing before Of the Falls of Lodore, Has a prominent share, In this little affair. * * * * * “From all parts of the town Have the members come down, To renew legislation―― For this favored nation; From South, West, and North, They have all issued forth; Brought by brougham and train They have mustered again; And the signal awaiting Are busy debating; Excitement controlling, And friends button-holing, And some even napping, Till Black-Rod comes rapping. But, then, ere he’s done, Off the nimble ones run Up passages, stairs, Four-a-breast, or in pairs, Till some even swelter, So fierce is their flurry; Helter-skelter, Hurry-scurry, There they go rushing, And here they come crushing, And rudely rebuffing, (But Warton is snuffing) With a chorus of “oh’s,” And much treading on toes, Till increasing their pace, For quite reckless they are, They tear on in their race To be at the Bar. Some five hundred strong, They hasten along, Fuming and raging, As though a war waging. Slighting and smiting, And old ones affrighting; Dodging and darting, With gouty feet smarting, Limping and hustling, And fussily bustling; Talking whilst walking, And punning whilst running, Twisting and turning Sharp corners around, Selfishly spurning The friends that abound; Calling and bawling, (Some actually sprawling), And hooting and yelling, With outcry so swelling, That all who are near they completely astound. Pressing, progressing, Proceeding and speeding, And threading and spreading, And shocking and mocking, And tattling and battling, And coursing and forcing, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And going tip-toeing, And hopping and stopping, And gaining and straining, And hieing and vieing, And flouncing and bouncing, And seizing and squeezing, And catching and snatching, And ambling and scrambling, And stripping and slipping, And singing and swinging, And doubling and troubling, And pining and whining, And shifting and drifting, And filing and smiling, And dinning and winning, And moaning and groaning; And thundering and blundering, And hurrying and scurrying, And quivering and shivering, And parrying and harrying, And hastening and chastening, And cantering and bantering; Dividing, and sliding, and striding, And bumping, and lumping, and jumping, And stumbling, and tumbling, and grumbling, And chasing, and racing, and pacing, And clattering, and battering, and chattering And bounding, and rounding, and pounding, And steering, and jeering, and fearing. And contriving, and driving, and striving, And stooping, and whooping, and trooping; Retreating, and eating, and meeting, and greeting, Delaying, and straying, and staying, and saying, Advancing, and prancing, and chancing, and glancing, Recoiling, embroiling, turmoiling, and toiling, And steaming, and beaming, and scheming, and teaming, And clapping, and slapping, and rapping, and tapping, And crushing, and brushing, and gushing, and rushing, And backing, and tracking, and hacking, and packing, And dashing, and clashing, and smashing, and crashing, And glaring, and daring, and pairing, and flaring, So seeming ne’er ending, but always ascending, These sounds and these motions are loudly contending, As five hundred and more with a mighty uproar, On their way to the Bar, hurry in through the door.” _Truth_, February 9, 1882. ―――― THE MEETING OF THE LANDLORDS. _How do the Landlords “come down on” the Act?_ Here they come hurrying, there they come scurrying, Their minds about destiny dreadfully worrying; With big “Resolutions” and plaints against “Wrong,” They hasten along, more sounding than strong. Posing and glosing, Dread dangers disclosing, And hinting that Providence sure must be dozing. Blaming, and shaming, Declaiming, and flaming, And large “Compensation” commandingly claiming. Sobbing, and throbbing, ’Gainst Radical robbing, Sighing and crying; Rack-renting denying With stinging jobation Against confiscation, And much botheration About Valuation; Spouting, and flouting, and doubting, Denouncing, and bouncing, and flouncing; And fluttering, and muttering, and sputtering; And swearing repairing the past is uptearing, Society’s self from its basis and bearing; And flaring, and blaring, and simple souls scaring By wild elocution About Revolution; Proclaiming that law is now putting a stopper On Property’s game in a manner improper: That Civilization is coming a cropper. _So_ the Landlords galore, Like Cassandras, deplore, And down on the Land Act like Cataracts pour, O’er and o’er, o’er and o’er, With a mighty uproar. While the World says,――“_We’ve heard all this Shindy before_!” _Punch_, January 14, 1882. ―――― THAT’S HOW THE TOURISTS COME DOWN TO THE SHORE. Cheerily, Wearily, Warily, Merrily, Slidingly, Glidingly, Trippingly, Skippingly, Leaping and creeping, At nymphs slyly peeping, Mashing and dashing, In salt water splashing, Billing and cooing, The wooed and the wooing, Hobbies entrancing all, beauty enhancing all, Laughter and jollity ruling and schooling all, Neptune from ocean arising surprising all. Ceaseless vivacity, Reckless audacity, Some in high ecstasies, Others in vextasies. Merry girls spooning and flirting and catching on, Elderly matrons with schemes of love matching on, Old gents asthmatical, wheezing and sneezing on, Artists all sketching and etching and painting on, Geologists searching and peering and diving on, Climbers ascending and wearily wending on, Activity endless with never an ending on. When the season arrives, And the big billows roar, That’s how the tourists Come down to the shore. _The Detroit Free Press_, Summer Number, 1885. In 1880, Mr. E. Harris-Bickford, of Camborne, published a long poem on the Falls of Niagara, it also was written in imitation of Southey’s _Cataract of Lodore_. [Illustration] THE OLD MAN’S COMFORTS AND HOW HE GAINED THEM. “You are old, father William,” the young man cried, “The few locks that are left you are grey: You are hale, father William, a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray.” “In the days of my youth,” father William replied, “I remember’d that youth would fly fast, And abus’d not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last.” “You are old, father William,” the young man cried, “And pleasures with youth pass away, And yet you lament not the days that are gone: Now tell me the reason, I pray.” “In the days of my youth,” father William replied, “I remembered that youth could not last; I thought of the future whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past.” “You are old, father William,” the young man cried, “And life must be hast’ning away; You are cheerful and love to converse upon death; Now tell me reason, I pray.” “I am cheerful, young man,” father William replied, “Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth I remember’d my God, And he hath not forgotten my age.” ROBERT SOUTHEY. ―――― Father William. “You are old, Father William,” the young man said, “And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head, _Do_ you think at your age it is right?” “In my youth,” Father William replied to his son, “I feared it might injure the brain, But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again.” “You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back sommersault in at the door, Pray, _what_ is the reason of that?” “In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, “I kept all my limbs very supple, By the use of this ointment――one shilling the box, Allow me to sell you a couple.” “You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet, Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak, Pray how did you manage to do it?” “In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife, And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life.” “You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose, That your eye was as steady as ever, Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose, What made you so _awfully_ clever?” “I have answered three questions and that is enough,” Said his father. “don’t give yourself airs, “Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!” From _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_, by Lewis Carroll. (Macmillan and Co., London.) ―――― THE OLD MAN’S COLD, AND HOW HE GOT IT. BY NORTHEY-SOUTHEY-EASTEY-WESTEY. “You are cold, Father William,” the young man cried, “You shake and you shiver, I say, You’ve a cold, Father William, your nose it is red; Now tell me the reason, I pray.” “In the days of my youth,” Father William replied―― (He was a dissembling old man), “I put lumps of ice in my grandpapa’s boots, And snowballed my aunt Mary Ann.” “Go along! Father William.” the young man cried, “You are trying it on, sir, to-day; What makes your teeth chatter like bone castanettes? Come, tell me the reason, I pray.” “In the days of my youth,” Father William replied, “I went to the North Pole with Parry; And now, my sweet boy, the Arc-tic doloreux Plays with this old man the Old Harry.” “Get out! Father William,” the young man cried, “Come you shouldn’t go on in this way; You are funny, but still you’ve a frightful bad cold―― Now tell me the reason I pray.” “I am cold, then, dear youth,” Father William replied, “I’ve a cold my impertinent son, Because for some weeks my coals have been bought At forty-eight shillings a ton!” This parody appeared in _The Figaro_, (London,) March 1st, 1873, and seems to have been so much admired by the editor of that journal, that he served up a second edition of it, with some alterations, on July 15, 1874, as follows:―― You seem cold, Father William, the young man cried, And chilblains are massed round your nose, I rarely in all my experience before Saw chilblains so broken as those. You are right, my young man, Father William replied, These chilblains you see are the fruits Of the snowballs I put, when a youngster like you, In my Aunt Mary Ann’s Sunday boots. You seem cold, father William, the young man cried, And if I may venture to say so, You have influenza most awfully bad, Come, why do you wheeze in that way so? In the days of my youth, father William replied, I found it uncommonly easy To sit on the ice when I wanted to skate, ’Tis hence that I now am so wheezy. You seem cold, father William, the young man cried, And I see you incessantly shiver; Do you think, aged pal, such a jellyish trick Is good, at four score, for the liver? I shiver, young man, father William replied, Because, with your mirth bubbling o’er, You slipped lumps of ice down the nape of my neck, But I’m blowed if I stand any more! O. P. Q. PHILANDER SMIFF, ESQ., _in his remarks on the Weather_. ―――― THE CAUSE OF TRUTH. (Few are aware that Southey’s beautiful and much lauded Poem of “Old Father William,” is copied almost verbatim from an old American ballad. Far be it from us to comment upon the fact, but truth compels us to remark that a more barefaced piece of plagiarism has never come under our notice. In order to convince the public of the veracity of our statements, we subjoin the original ballad as found by us in an old MS. entitled “Wild Cat Warblings.”) “You air old, Father William, an elderly cuss, But I reckon you air real grit, For the high handed way you sailed into that muss Astonished creation a bit.” “Waal, fact is,” said William, removing his quid, “I allus was cheerful and spry; And my motto is, ‘Do, or you’re sure to be did,’ And ‘Root little hog, or die.’” “You are old, Father William,” the young man said, “Your fingers are stiff you’ll agree; Yet you euchred the boys till they hadn’t a red, And bust up the heathen Chinee.” “In the days of my youth,” Father William replied, “I played on the square, you perceive; But now I have let old integrity slide, And I keep the best bower in my sleeve.” “You are old, Father William, and whiskey took neat, Unsettles the sight I opine; Yet you wiped out the digger who called you a cheat, In a way that was powerful fine.” “Take the lead when you can,” was his father’s response, “That’s a bully old rule you’ll allow; Besides, if you settle a critter at once, It saves you from having a row.” “You are old, Father William, and soon I expect To be taking you round in a hearse; Yet somehow you never appear to reflect That you’re goin’ from wicked to worse.” “Go slow” said his father, replacing his chaw, “You are getting too all fired proud; I reckon we’ve had just enough of your jaw, Let’s licker. Hi! drinks for the crowd.” _Zoz_ (Dublin), October, 1878. ―――― YOUTH AND AGE. “You are old, Father William,” the young men cried, “A disciple of Fox and of Grey; Yet you prattle of peace at a Palmerston Club; Come tell me the reason, I pray.” “Oh, what’s in a name?” Father William replied, “Against Pam’s pet ideas I am planning; But your Militant Tories are spouting next door, ’Neath the peaceable ægis of Canning.” “While here, Father William,” the young men cried, “At Benjamin’s baseness you rave; But like Balaam when called on the Jew to confound, At Westminster blessings you gave.” “At Oxford, my sons,” Father William replied, “I smote with my staff, I’m aware; But I spoke to the Asses in Westminster Hall, For I knew they could answer me there.” “Oh, fie, Father William, you should not employ Your talents in personal strife; These picnic orations bad temper betray; Is it seemly at your time of life?” “In office and out,” Father William replied, “Has Beaconsfield filled me with rage; In the days of my youth I remember his sneers, And I will not forget in my age.” _Mayfair_, February 12, 1878. ―――― THE OLD MAN’S SORROW, AND HOW HE CAUSED IT. (_A Ballad of the Future._) “You are sad, People’s William,” the young man cried, “And you seem to your years to succumb; You are weak, People’s William, though not very old, And have a large corn on your thumb.” “In the years lately past,” People’s William replied. “I weakly attempted too much; I abused both my health and my vigour, and now There is scarcely a task I dare touch.” “Dearie me, People’s William,” the young man cried. “It grieves me to hear you speak so, But still I should like” (here he gazed at the corn) “Something more of your history to know.” “In the years lately pass’d,” People’s William replied, “I knew not the meaning of rest; For I cut down big trees by way of relief, Then return’d to my desk with new zest. I wrote, towards the end, for some six magazines, “Every month several pamphlets likewise, And of post cards and letters, some four score a day―― Ah, you listen, I see, with surprise.” “That I do; People’s William,” the young man cried, “As your various achievements you sum, But ’tis not with wonder that longer I view That well defined corn on your thumb.” “Nor was this all I did,” People’s William replied, “For I strove with my tongue, too, to teach, And I lost ne’er a chance, howsoever it came, Of making an _à propos_ speech.” “But, stay, People’s William!” the young man cried, “You surely some holidays took, When, flying from home to some district unknown, You work for the moment forsook.” “Nay, nay, ’twas not so!” People’s William replied; “’Twas the same on my holiday trips; Wheresoever I was, I had always to keep A ready-made speech on my lips. As I stept on a pier from steamer’s poop-deck, “Or put my head out of a train; As I enter’d a city, or went from a town, I could not from speaking refrain. Where two or three gather’d together forthwith, I gave them a taste of my tongue; No matter their sex, no matter the place, I spared neither aged nor young.” “Enough! People’s William!” the young man cried; “It is clear to me now that I gaze On a man who has foolishly tried in the past To spend in hard work _all_ his days.” “That is so, my young man,” People’s William replied; “So me as a warning employ To teach that all work and no play in the end Makes William, like Jack, a dull boy!” _Truth_, October 24, 1878. ―――― WHAT THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE GOBBLER. ALSO WHAT THE GOBBLER SAID IN REPLY. “You are old, turkey gobbler,” the young man cried; “Your flesh must be terribly tough, Yet they’ll cook you to-morrow for dinner, I’ll bet―― Don’t you think that exceedingly rough?” “I am no longer young, I admit,” said the fowl, “Yet remember I cost but a shillin’; Your landlady thought (and with her I agree) That, considering the price, I’d be fillin’.” “You are old as the hills,” the young man remarked, “And I fear you are not very fat, Though they’ve fed you on pumpkin seeds now for a month―― Pray what will you answer to that?” “I’m not very fat――you’ve hit it again; In truth I’m as lean as a lizard, For some chronic complaint, with a long Latin name, Is eating away my gizzard.” “Your gizzard! good gracious! don’t say so, by Jove!” The youth in dismay fairly roared; “Why, that is the part sure to fall to my lot, When, as now, I’m behind with my board!” “I am sorry for that,” replied the old fowl; “I assure you ’tis no fault of mine; But I s’pose if you choose to prefer something else, ’Twill be easy enough to decline.” “You are old, you are tough, you are sickly besides; Your lot my compassion doth move; Don’t you think,” said the youth, “that a change of scene Your condition would greatly improve?” “I acknowledge the corn and a change of air Would do me much good I believe; But I have an engagement to-morrow, you see, I cannot very well leave.” “I’ll break your engagement,” the young man cried, As he smashed in the coop with an axe, Whereupon for a healthier neighbourhood The old turkey gobbler made tracks. * * * * * “There’ll be turkey for dinner,” the boarders all cried, But, alas! they were greatly mistaken, For the landlady brought in that Christmas day The usual liver and bacon. _Free Press Flashes_, 1882. ―――― THE GRAND YOUNG MAN, OR FATHER WILLIAM “EWART” ANSWERED. “You look young, little Randolph,” the Old One cried, “Yet you’re up on your legs every day; You have impudence, too, an amazing amount! Now tell me the reason, I pray.” “Your wisdom, your years,” little Randolph replied, “And the honours that some think your due, Merely force me to strut in your path and proclaim I’m as good every bit, sir, as you.” “You _are_ young, little Randolph,” the Old One cried, “If your elders excite but your jeers; But tell me, now do, how it comes that, though young, You are so ill-behaved for your years.” “I am so ill-behaved,” little Randolph replied, “Because I believe in myself, And regard such old fogies as Northcote and you As lumber but fit for the shelf.” “You’re _too_ good, little Randolph,” the Old One cried, “And of gumption you’re certainly full; But I never could quite understand why you seem To enjoy playing frog to my bull.” “Old pippin, it’s clear,” little Randolph replied. “A fine Grand _Old Man_ you may be,―― But I’m making my game, and the public all round Hail the coming _Grand Young ’Un_ in me!” _Punch_, November 18, 1882. ―――― _Truth_ for April 5, 1883, contained nineteen competition parodies of “You are old, Father William,” amongst which the following are the most interesting, the others are nearly all out of date:―― “You are old, Father William,” the young man cried, “Yet your step is still springy and gay; You are strong, Father William, a muscular man, Now, tell me the reason, I pray?” “In the days of my strength, Mr. G――dst――e replied, “I, by exercise, strength still amass’d; That, devoted to England and Statesmanship first, I might flourish my axe to the last.” “You are old, Father William,” the young man cried, “In the Commons to lead is not play; And yet you accept not the peerage you’ve earned; Now, tell me the reason, I pray?” “In the tomb of the Lords,” Mr. G――dst――e replied, “I’d not bury my eloquence vast; But as Clark speaks of rest, in the future may do That I never have done in the past.” “You are bold, Father William,” the young man cried “Though majorities dwindle away: Oft your acts men estrange, yet you talk them all back, Now, teach me the secret, I pray.” “Mark me, Herbert, my son,” Mr. G――dst――e replied, “Let my words your discretion engage; In the days of my youth, had I chatter’d like you, “None had hearkened to me in my age.” REPEALER. ―――― “You are young, Master Randolph,” the Premier cried; “You are scarce from your nursemaid set free. And I was a Statesman before you were born, So don’t come dictating to me.” “I own that I’m young,” Master Randolph replied, “And you are old, WEG, that no one denies. But I’m really surprised that you have not yet learnt That in age no criterion lies.” “It’s exceedinly rude,” Father William rejoined, “To speak thus to your elders and betters. Remember, ‘Small boys should be seen and not heard,’ As you’ll read when they teach you your letters.” “But, being so old,” the Coming One cried, “You ought to be wiser, it’s plain. But no――a thought strikes me――I see it, of course: You are entering your childhood again.” “This impudence really exceeds all belief; Since I was young, things are much changed. When I was a Tory, small boys knew their place―― My lad, I’m afraid you’re deranged.” “Father William,” the other rejoined, with a laugh, “Of my talents you’re jealous, I see; And this I know well, though you scoff at my youth, That you’d gladly change ages with me.” PICKWICK. ―――― “You’re a Peer, now Lord Wolseley,” a subaltern cried “Scarce your breast can more medals display. By the Horse Guards unsnubbed, to the War Office dear, How on earth you have managed it, say?” “’Tis advertisement does it,” Lord Wolseley replied, “I went in for monthly reviews; In each new magazine Wolseleyistics were seen, But I minded my p’s and my q’s.” “You’re a General, Lord Wolseley,” the subaltern cried, “And our only one, so people say; In your twopenny wars no great captains you fought, How got you such fame? tell, I pray.” “In my Ashantee campaign,” Lord Wolseley replied, “I had made what cute Yanks call a ‘Ring,’ And, buttering all round from ‘the Duke’ to the ground, Praised my friends that my praise they might sing.” “You’re a Patron, Lord Wolseley,” the subaltern cried, “Of a wine club, ‘The Vine,’ yet you say The best soldier is he who drinks nothing but tea; Expound me this thusness, I pray.” “At swallowing camels,” Lord Wolseley replied, “Dear England’s digestion’s not weak. She will gulp down whole arkfuls――like me to succeed, Try advertisement, butter, and――cheek!” SKRIKER. ―――― “New honours, Lord Wolseley,” cried Roberts “you get, Though your victories were very small; You’re head of the army, and War Office pet―― Pray how have you managed it all!” “In war,” he replied, “all manœuvres are fair, So by others the hard work was done; Their failures I blamed, took their praise as my share, And so that’s how my honours were won.” * * * * * OLD LOG. ―――― “You are old, Lady William,” the _débutante_ cried, “And by this time your hair should be grey; Yet fair golden locks still encircle your head, Now, how do you do that, I pray?” “The locks of my youth,” Lady William replied, “Were a carroty ginger they said; But by wise application of Mexican Balm, I attained to this delicate shade.” “You are old, Lady William,” the _débutante_ cried, “And all the folks call you a guy: Yet the bloom on your cheek far outrivals my own, Now tell me the dodge or I die.” “A complexion like mine.” Lady William replied, “Is expensive and peerless, I hope; I obtained it by dint of much trouble and care, And the free use of Pears’ patent soap.” “You are old, Lady William,” the _débutante_ cried, “At least, so your enemies say; But the census last year puts your age down, I see, As thirty-five years to a day.” “When my youth ’gan to fade,” Lady William replied, “I thought I’d remain at this stage; My friends and my enemies doubted and scoffed But by now they’ve forgotten my age.” THIRD RAVEN. ―――― “You are old, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried, “Do you mean with us always to stay? You’ve been shot at, Sir Kaiser, some three or four times, Yet you’re coming up smiling to-day.” “In the days of my youth,” Kaiser Wilhelm replied, “I was hardy, and healthy, and strong; And as to the shooting, my boy, it is said That threatened men always live long.” “You were bold, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried, “When you popped Prussia’s crown on your brow; And yet you were right as the sequel has proved, For they’ve made you an Emperor now.” “Why, certainly, Prince!” Kaiser Wilhelm replied. “I remembered that thrones do not last. I thought of the bird, and the hand, and the bush, And I nailed ‘Right Divine’ to the mast.” “They were sold, Kaiser Wilhelm,” the young Prince cried, “Those French who would march to Berlin; For there’s poor little Denmark, and Austria too, They’ve all been obliged to cave in.” “Yes, I’ve had a good time!” Kaiser Wilhelm replied, Though there’s one little flaw, I confess; That obstinate Pope is the thorn in my side, Or else I’m a perfect success.” T.S.G. ―――― “You are plain, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried, “Though your hair has not yet turned to grey; But you’re nice Mr. Biggar, a sensible man, Why not marry me, Joseph, I pray?” “In the days of my youth,” Mr. Biggar replied, “The marital rocks I steered past, And carefully kept myself free from the knot, That I ne’er might repent it at last.” “You’re not young, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried, “And the troubles of age creep apace; You may need a sweet wife――a soft, loving nurse―― In your heart why not give me a place?” “In the days of my youth,” smiling Joseph replied, “That request was oft made to me too, There are ‘obstacles’ very much stand in the way Of my marriage, dear Fanny, to you.” “You are good, Mr. Biggar,” the maiden cried, “To church shall we both now repair, Pray these ‘obstacles’ somehow at once be removed That your future your Fanny may share?” “I gladly agree, dear,” Joe Biggar replied, “The idea my attention shall claim; Meanwhile, let me give you a few pair of hose―― On the way we will purchase the same.” PASTE. ―――― “You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried, “And you have not a hair that is grey! Yet you set yourself up against Stafford and me, Now, tell me the reason, I pray?” “In the days of one’s youth,” Randolph Churchill replied, “’Tis important to get oneself known; And the best way of making a mark in the House, Is to strike out a line of one’s own.” “You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried, “And wisdom with age comes, they say; Yet on every topic you claim to be heard, Now, tell me the reason, I pray?” “I am young, it is true,” Randolph Churchill replied, “But a smattering of most things I know; And give all men credit for knowing still less, And often I find this is so.” “You are young, Randolph Churchill,” the old man cried, “Yet you’re eloquent, too, in your way; And your speeches are always reported at length, Now, tell me the reason, I pray?” “If I only can make enough noise while I’m young,” Said Randolph――“Perhaps when I’m grey Folks may come to believe me, and so I shall be, A ‘Grand Old Man’ also some day.” YASH. ―――― “You are old, Father William,” a pert youth said, “I can see it, you know, in your face; And still you go on with your prating and rating, Pray how do you keep up the pace.” “In the days of my youth,” the old man replied, “I foresaw I was destined for strife; I found a high collar supported the ‘jaw,’ And have stuck to it all through my life.” “You are old, Father William,” the youth then said, “You’ll excuse my remarking again; But still you fell trees with remarkable ease, Now can you this wonder explain?” “In the days of my youth,” said the Grand Old Man, “To keep little Herbert from harm, With healthy correction his faults I restrained, This accounts for the strength of my arm.” “You are old,” said the youth, “yet it’s easy to see That your brain is as fertile as ever, And your facts, though a fiction, defy contradiction; What made you so dreadfully clever?” “I’ve answered two questions, that’s surely enough, You have got to the end of your tether; When puzzled, reply in a meaningless way, Or refuse to reply altogether.” DON JUAN. Of the _Truth_ Parodies omitted, some were political, two were in reference to the action for breach of promise of marriage brought against Mr. Joseph Biggar, M.P., and one related to pigeon shooting. The extraordinary story set afloat by Lady Florence Dixie, that she had been waylaid by two men who attempted to murder her in broad daylight and close to the high road, was thus explained:―― “You have told, Lady Florence,” the young man cried, “A story that reads like a play; And your tale, Lady Florence, is hard to believe―― Oh! why did you tell it, I pray?” “In the tales that I tell,” Lady Florence replied, “I remember that rumour flies fast; And all that I cannot conjecture at first, Gets somehow put in at the last.” “But those men, Lady Florence,” the young man cried. “Those ruffians, with knives, got away, And yet of your struggle all traces are gone―― Oh, where are their footmarks, I pray?” “Of your questions, bold youth,” Lady Florence replied, “I hoped I had heard quite the last; I thought of my figure whatever I did, And my corsets must vouch for the past!” “But the truth, Lady Florence,” the young man cried, “Credulity’s passing away; You are cheerful, while Leaguers are bent on your death―― Oh, tell me the secret, I pray!” “I am cheerful, young man,” Lady Florence replied, “For my case doth both houses engage; And Royalty’s sent to ask how I am―― In fact, I am just now the rage.” OHR. ―――― THE LORDS AND THE YOUNG RADICAL. You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried, Nor can long your departure delay; Indeed it is strange you have lasted so long, Now tell me the reason, I pray. Your whole Constitution, that Senate replied, Would fail, if the Lords should depart; As the Queen is the Hand, and the Commons the Head, Of the nation the Lords are the Heart. You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried, And I think you should now clear away, Yet you all seem determined to stick to your House, Now tell me the reason, I pray. Whatever we may be, the Peers’ House replied, We are English and pluck do not lack; We shall never desert a good cause we espouse, Or to foes turn a cowardly back. You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried, And in my view no longer should stay, Though with some you were popular once, I confess, Now tell me the reason, I pray. In the days of our youth, the Assembly replied, We earned the true love of the land; Magna Charta we won――of its earliest laws The best were the work of our hand. You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried, But, if it is useful to-day To remind us of good you did centuries back, Now tell me the reason, I pray. We have faith in the people, the Peers’ House replied, Far stronger than you can avow; In the days of our youth if for them we strove hard, They will hardly turn round on us now. You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried, And long since have seen your best day, But still you are proud of your body effete, Now tell me the reason, I pray. In the days of our youth, the Assembly replied, Nothing good or ennobling was scorned: Clive, Wellington, Nelson, Howe, Liverpool, Pitt, Made us proud of the House they adorned. You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried, And to talk of your youth is to bray, But if you are proud of the age you have reached, Now tell me the reason, I pray. There are men in our House, the Assembly replied, Its promise of youth who fulfil, And Salisbury, Wolseley, Lytton, Tennyson, Cairns, Uphold and ennoble it still! You are old, Noble Senate, the young Rad cried, But, for all you may venture to say, You can’t be immortal, or if you so claim, Now, tell me the reason, I pray. Our glory will wane not, the Peers’ House replied, So long as the Sword and the Pen, The Courts and the Commons, th’ Exchange and the Church Shall send us the best of their men! From _A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor_, London, 1884. ―――― THE OLD MAN OF THE COMMONS. “You are old, Father William.” the young man cried; “The few locks that are left you are grey; Yet you’re still a most hale and remarkable man―― Now, tell me the reason, I pray.” “In the days of my youth,” William Ewart replied, “I remembered that youth would fly fast; And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might lack them at last.” “You are hale, William Ewart,” the young man cried, “And you never are heard to complain; But yet I can sadness perceive in your looks; Pray, what is the source of your pain?” “Nay, nay, as to that,” William Ewart replied, “Too closely you’re seeking to pry; But if you insist upon knowing the cause, The Whigs can the answer supply.” “You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried. “And yet you’re more honoured each day; Now tell me, I beg, what the reason can be You’re beloved in this wonderful way.” All the days of my life.” William Ewart replied, “To do what is right I have tried; And fearless of scorn and regardless of jeers, I have ever made duty my guide.” “You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried, “Yet thousands but yesterday sat Devouring, for hours, every word that you spoke; Now, what is the reason of that?” “Whenever I speak,” William Ewart replied, “I never am acting a part; But I say what I feel, and each sentence comes straight From the depths of an Englishman’s heart!” “You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried. “And honours are surely your due; Then prithee explain why a title or cross Has ne’er been accepted by you?” “In a cross or a star,” William Ewart replied, “No kind of attraction I see; No, the love of the land, and its people’s respect Are honours sufficient for me!” “You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried, “And you live in the nation’s esteem; Then why do the Tories insist that a base And most truculent traitor you seem?” “’Gainst all honest attacks,” William Ewart replied, “I am safe, thanks to Liberal might; So much foul-mouthed abuse must be due, I suppose, To an impotent partisan spite.” “You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried, And yet every year that you live, You nearer approach to the Radical’s creed What reason for this can you give?” “In the days of my youth,” William Ewart replied, “Of politics what could I know? But now every year that I live, I contrive Still wiser and wiser to grow.” “You are old, William Ewart,” the young man cried, “And life must be fleeting away, Yet you stick to your post, and refuse to take rest; Now, what is your reason I pray?” “I stick to my post,” William Ewart replied, “Because a great work I’ve begun, And mean not to rest, though the peers do their worst, Until that great work I have done.” _Truth_, 1884. ―――― “Encouraged by the success which has attended the interviewers of Fred Archer in America, we thought we would send a man to try his hand on William Archer _père_, at his residence at Cheltenham. He had an audience of the Patriarch, and has focussed the result in the following”:―― OLD WILLIAM ARCHER INTERVIEWED. “You are old, Father William,” the Editor cried, “And too stout for a race, I suspect; Yet they say that you once were a good ’un to ride, Now tell me if that is correct?” “In my youth,” Father William replied to the scribe, “I rode for the famed Romanoff, And the grog which in Russia I used to imbibe, Put on what I never got off.” “You are stout, Father William, as I said before, And my questions may savour of cheek. If you clapped on the sweaters and used them once more, How much could you waste in a week?” “In my youth,” said old Billy, “in flannels and wraps I’ve toiled over mountain and plain; But such practices never suit podgy old chaps, So I’m blest if I do it again.” “You are ’cute,” said the Scribe, “and your intellect’s clear, Your son is of jockeys the crack; As the Derby’s approaching, I’m anxious to hear Which horse you advise me to back.” “See here,” said the Old ’Un, “you want a straight tip, And I’ll give one your merits to suit, Get out of my diggings, you artful Old Rip! Or I’ll give you the toe of my boot.” _The Sporting Times_, May 2, 1885. ―――― “That terrible _Lancet_ has discovered that the public requires to be put on its guard against the practice of licking adhesive stamps and envelopes. Local irritation, sore tongues, and the like lie in wait for the licker, and it seems, furthermore, that ‘every now and again we hear of special propagation of disease by the habit.’ Our medical contemporary’s caution suggests a wholly new version of an old rhyme:―― “You are old, Father William,” the young man cried, “Yet your health is quite perfect, I wis, And your back is unbent, and your muscles are strong, Pray explain, sir, the meaning of this.” “As a lad,” said the sage, with a glance that was sly, “In my watch on myself I was strict, _I refrained when the postage-stamp courted my tongue, And I let envelopes go unlicked_.” _Funny Folks_, June 6, 1885. ―――― THE SEQUEL TO A GREAT POEM. “You are old, Father William,” the young man said, “The few locks that are left you are grey; To revive and embellish your winterbound head, There is obviously only one way.” “Ere my fogeydom days,” Father William replied, “I spent money to make myself spry, But the hoar-frost of age, all cosmetiques defied, Though I tried every advertised dye.” “That may be,” said the youth, with self satisfied air, (He belonged to a set that was fast,) Yet, why, Father William, give way to despair, Are the days of discoveries past?” “Not so,” cried the old man, “I read but yestr’een, ‘There is hope for the aged and grey,’ You know you young dog very well what I mean, The Reviver of Great Count D’Orsay.” (From an advertisement.) _Once a Week_, 1886. ―――― ON IRISH POLICY. You are old, Father Will――one might almost expect That your head was as sage as it’s hoary; Yet your blunders are easy for babes to detect, And your wits have, it seems, gone to glory. You preached upon “Peace,” and your text wouldn’t mar By applying Coercion to “Pat”; Yet you’d turn a back somersault, go in for war; Pray, what is the reason of that? Of the Empire’s integrity, careless as well As your own, you must needs turn Home-Rule-ish, And stoop to intrigue with that traitor P――ll; What made you so awfully foolish? “Peace, Randolph,” replied Father Will, in a huff, “No questions!――I’m lofty and pure, “Not made like you Tories of bloodthirsty stuff, “Be off, or you’ll get the _Clôture_.” _A New Alphabet of Irish Policy_, by Sphinx (John Heywood, Manchester). ―――― A VALENTINE. _From Miss Hibernia to W. E. G._ You are old, sweetheart William――your hair is grown grey But your heart is still tender and true; And though often in anger I’ve turned me away, Yet I’ve ever been faithful to you. You are old, sweetheart William――you’ve courted me long, And you’ve given me presents galore; But I want――and I hope you won’t think I am wrong―― I want just one little thing more. Don’t refuse, sweetheart William, my modest request―― The control of my household affairs; And our union at last may be happily blest, And I’ll never more give myself airs! JAMES G. MEAGHER. _The Weekly Dispatch_, February 14, 1886. [Illustration] THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. It was a summer evening, Old Caspar’s work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, That he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Caspar took it from the boy. Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh―― “’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he, “Who fell in the great victory,” “I find them in the garden, for There’s many here about; And often, when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out; For many a thousand men,” said he, “Were slain in that great victory.” “Now tell us what ’twas all about,” Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; “Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for!” “It was the English,” Caspar cried, “That put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for I could not well make out; But everybody said,” quoth he, “That ’twas a famous victory!” “My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little streams hard by; They burned his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled. Nor had he where to rest his head. “With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then And new born infant died: But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. “They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many a thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun: But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.” “Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won, And our good Prince Eugene.” “Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!” Said little Wilhelmine. “Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he, “It was a famous victory!” “And everybody praised the Duke, Who such a fight did win.” “But what good came of it at last?” Quoth little Peterkin. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “But ’twas a famous victory!” ROBERT SOUTHEY. Mr. J. Dixon, in a recent number of _Notes and Queries_, remarks that “while writing this popular little poem Southey seems to have ‘forgotten his history’ in making Caspar, an old Bavarian peasant, call Prince Eugene of Savoy, “_our_ good prince.” He and the Duke of Marlborough, as commanders of the allied forces, defeated the combined army of the French and Bavarians, and old Caspar could look upon Prince Eugene only as an enemy and alien. Southey calls the little boy _Peterkin_, a name quite unknown in South Germany. _Blenheim_ has been so universally accepted as giving a name to the battle, and so many places in England have been called after it, that it would be absurd to expect that the real name of the village――‘Blindheim’――should ever replace it; but certain it is that no such place as _Blenheim_ exists in Germany.” A BATTLE WITH BILLINGSGATE. It was the Christmas holidays, And seated in the pit, A Father saw the new Burlesque, That was so full of wit. And by him sat――in slang unskill’d―― His pretty little girl, Clotilde. She heard some “ladies” on the stage Say they would “cut their sticks!” And one in male attire declare That she’d “go it like bricks.” She asked her Father what were “bricks”? And what they meant by “cut their sticks?” The Father heard the audience laugh, As at some witty stroke; And the old man he scratch’d his head, For he couldn’t see the joke. “I don’t know what they mean,” said he, “But sure ’tis some facetiæ.” And then she heard one, nearly nude, Say something else about, “Has your fond mother sold her mangle? And does she know you’re out?” And when the people laughed, cried she, “Oh, Pa! there’s more facetiæ!” And then the little maiden said, “Now tell me why, Papa, That lady ask’d him if the mangle Was sold by his mamma?” “I can’t tell why, my dear,” said he, Though, of course, ’tis some facetiæ.” But when she saw the lady’s fingers Unto her nose applied, “Why, ’tis a very vulgar thing!” The little maiden cried. “The papers all, my child, agree, ’Tis brimful of facetiæ. “And everybody says the piece With brilliant wit is filled;” “And what is wit, my dear Papa?” Quoth innocent Clotilde. “Why, that I cannot say,” quoth he, “But wit is _not_――vulgarity.” From _George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack_ for 1847. ―――― A SEASONABLE GOSSIP. It was a Sunday evening, Old Simpson’s pipe was fill’d, And on the hob his porter stood (He always took it “chill’d”) And near him, from the _Times_ outspread, His little grandson Thomas read. (Here follow seven verses descriptive of the principal events in the French Revolution of 1848. These are ancient history now.) “Great praise, no doubt, the men deserve, Who for their rights have fought.” “But what will come of it at last?” Asked little Tom, in thought. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “But not, I fear, Tranquillity.” _The Puppet Show_, May 13, 1848. ―――― THE BATTLE OF JOBBING. _A Prospective Scene_.――_Time about_ 1893. It was a winter’s evening; Old Thomson’s work was done, And he, before a small wood fire, Sat crouching like a crone; And by him sat, as cold as stones, His trusty neighbours, Scott and Jones. He saw his nephew bringing in A something large and round, That in the garden at the back, In digging there he’d found. He came to ask what he had found That was so large, and black, and round. Old Thomson took it from the youth, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And answered with a sigh―― “A lump of that sea-coal,” said he, “Our fathers used so lavishly.” They find it near Newcastle, for There’s plenty thereabout; But Shipping Law and City Dues Combine to keep it out. And such poor wretched folks as we Can’t purchase such a luxury.” “Now tell me what ’tis all about,” The youth cried with surprise; And neighbours Scott and Jones looked up With wonder in their eyes:―― “Now tell us all about the Law, And what the City Dues are for?” “The Law is this――all foreign ships Are by our rulers told, They shall not bring us coal while ours Are off for Melbourne gold; And so the coal comes as it can―― A cheap and most efficient plan! “The City lent an orphan fund To merry Charles the Second; Full seven hundred thousand pounds I think the sum was reckon’d; But what they lent it for,” quoth he, “No mortal man could ever see. “But though Charles could not meet his bill The loan was not so rash; For soon they put a tax on coals, Which paid them back their cash A hundred-fold; but then, you know, That money makes the Mayor to go. “On ev’ry fire for twenty miles They laid this City tax, And what they lost by _merry_ Charles They put on other’s backs; And still they keep the tax, you know, For money makes the Mayor to go. “We think it is a splendid sight On a November day, To see the Lord Mayor’s coach and six, With bands and banners gay; But then we know, beneath the show, _What_ money makes the Mayor to go. Great praise the Corporation wins For hospitality.” “Why, they’re a set of jobbing knaves!” Exclaimed the other three. “Hush, hush! my friends,” quoth he, “you know, That money makes the Mayor to go. “And after feasts much broken food Is given to the poor,” “Why, they but give them back their own!” Exclaim’d they, as before. “Well, that,” said he, “I do not know, But money makes the Mayor to go.” _Diogenes_, October, 1853. ―――― THE BATTLE OF BERLIN. (_As it may be described some day._) It was a summer’s evening, Old Monty’s[67] work was done, And he, before his garden door, Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green, His little grandchild Hughendine. She saw her brother Benjamin Bring something tied around With broad red tape, which he inside A Cabinet had found: He came to ask what he had found, That was so neatly tied around. Old Monty took it from the boy, And sighing, shook his head, “It is my relic of the fight That congress waged,” he said―― “The Berlin Treaty, which,” quoth he, “We won in the great victory.” “Now, tell us what ’twas all about,” Young Benjamin he cries; And little Hughendine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes―― “Now tell us why the Congress met, And what advantage did we get.” “It was our Premier,” Monty cried, “That put them all to rout; Though how and when he managed it I could not well make out; But every body said,” quoth he, “That ’twas a famous victory. “True, Russia most successfully Did play her little game; And Austria got heaps of spoil, And even Greece the same: But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. “Great praise the Duke of Cyprus won, And Salisbury too, I ween.” “For simply faring like the rest!” Said little Hughendine. “Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he, “It was a famous victory. “And everybody praised the Duke Who such a fight did win.” “But, pray, what good has come of it?” Quoth little Benjamin. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he; “But ’twas a famous victory.” _Funny Folks_, August 3, 1878. ―――― CHILDREN AT THE PANTOMIME. First Prize poem published in _The World_ February 4, 1880. It was a winter’s evening; The father’s work was done, And in a box at Drury Lane He sat to see the fun, And nestling closely at his side Were Mat and Mabel eager-eyed. They gloated over Blue Beard’s crimes; They pitied Sister Ann; They clapped the transformation scene, As only children can; Then Columbine and Harlequin, With Clown and Pantaloon, come in. “Now tell us what it’s all about,” Young Mat expectant cries; And little Mabel seconds him With shining wistful eyes. “Now tell us all about the fuss, And why they whack each other thus.” “It is their way,” the father said; “They act it in dumb show; But what they whack each other for I really do not know. But everybody calls it prime―― It is a famous pantomime, “But still, they say, ’tis sad to see Those girls so young and fair, Who charmed you so just now, at home, And all the squalor there. But things like these in every clime Attend a famous pantomime. “Great credit has the manager From all the people gained.” “Why those poor girls _appeared_ so gay!” Quoth Mabel, greatly pained. “Hush, hush, thou little lass o’ mine; It is a famous pantomime! “And folk have praised the good lessee, Who’s furnished us the fun.” “But what’s the meaning of it all?” Quoth Mat, his tiny son. Said dad, “You’ll know it all in time; But ’tis a famous pantomime.” ORCHIS. (_F. B. Doveton._) _Second Prize Poem._ It was a winter’s evening, Had closed the tedious day, And grandpapa and Master Tom Had come to see the play, And, shyly peeping at the scene, His little grandchild Wilhelmine. Then Master Tommy’s mouth and eyes Grew very large and round, With awestruck gaze of mute surprise At that enchanted ground; “Please tell us what they do, you know, And why they slap each other so.” “They play those tricks to make us laugh, (Just hear the people shout!) Though what they slap each other for, I never could make out; But everybody says this time It is a famous pantomime. “And some are kings, and some are queens, And some are knights and squires. And some have friends behind the scenes, And fly――by means of wires; For many hundred at a time, Perform in this great pantomime. “Some smile, like that for weeks and weeks, And twirl upon their toes; Some paint their eyebrows and their cheeks, And prance about in rows; And everybody says, ‘How prime! It is a famous pantomime.’ “Great praise the foremost actors win Whenever they are seen――” “But tis a very silly thing!” Said little Wilhelmine. “Nay, nay, my little girl; this time It is a famous pantomime. “Perhaps poor Joe, who laughs so loud, Feels more inclined to cry; Perhaps _his_ little Wilhelmine Is sick, and like to die: But every one, you know, some time Must play in the great pantomime.” CUCUMBER. (_A. Salter._) ―――― THE BATTLE OF BRUMMAGEM. _By Robert Mouthey._ I. It was an April evening, The polling day was o’er; And Grandpa STONE in sadden’d mood, Reclined his fire before; Recrimination, blame, were done, GEM, RANDALL, HOPKINS,――all,――were gone. II. His little grandson, playing near, A printed sheet had found, With letters cover’d, bold and clear, And figures large and round; In vain he tried to make it out, And came to ask what ’twas about. III. Old STONE then took it from the child, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And heav’d a natural sigh,―― “It tells of all who went,” said he, And poll’d in the great victory!” IV. “I see it in the papers told, There’s many here about; And often when their tales I read, In lies I find them out; We Tories never feared,” said he, “To gain a glorious victory!” V. “Now tell us what ’twas all about,” His grandson then he cries, While near his little sister stood, With wonder-waiting eyes; “Now, tell us all about this Poll; What means this word so queer and droll?” VI. “The Liberals ’twas” said STONE, “who put The Tory host to rout; But how this same thing came to pass I cannot well make out; But all the same for us,” said he, “It is a _virtual_ victory!” VII. “I show’d my face amid the crowd, The polling booth hard by; Hired ruffians chaff’d and hooted me, And I was forced to fly; So, as was best, I quickly fled, And here I rest my weary head.” VIII. “All false reports and tales we spread, And slander far and wide; Intimidation, threats, rewards,―― Each Tory dodge we tried; Such things in politics must be, E’en for a _virtual_ victory!” IX. Bad luck! a drizzling rain came down, The day had else been won; Our band of Tory lambs it drench’d, And spoilt their promis’d fun; The Liberals to vote were free, And gain’d a famous victory!” X. “Great praise our BURNABY he won, And CALTHORPE by his side,” “Why, twas a very foolish thing!” The little girl then cried. “Nay,――nay,――my little girl,” quoth he, “They gain’d a _virtual_ victory!” XI. “And every one the MAJOR prais’d, Who this great fight did win;”―― “Then, after all,” the boy he cried, ’Twas BURNABY got in?” “Well,――not exactly that,”――said he, ’Twas but a _virtual_ victory!” By the late William Bates, B.A. _The Town Crier_, Birmingham, April, 1880. ―――― A FAMOUS HOLIDAY. It was a summer evening, The pointsman’s work was done; And he before his own box door Felt precious glad for one; And by him loafed about the line The night-watch due at half-past nine. And, as he loafed about, he came On something flat and round, That smashed had caught his shuffling feet Upon the gravelled ground. And then he asked what he had found That was so smashed――yet flat and round. The pointsman took it from his mate Who stood all sleepy by; And then he clapped it on his head And said, “Lor’ bless you――why, It’s what some bloke dropped by the way On that there last bank ’oliday! “I often come across ’em here, There’s many round about; Why, if you had to find your ’ats, That ditch would rig you out! There’s scores of ’em, so I’ve heard say, Wos dropped on that there ’oliday.” “Now, tip us ’ow it come about,” The other, drowsy, cries, The while, the crownless chimney-pot Upon his head he tries. “Now, tip us: say, whose job it wor? What did he smash the ’_Scursion_ for?” “Jim’s wor that job,” the pointsman said; “He ’ad too long a bout! But what he smashed the ’_Scursion_ for I never could make out. He fell a blinkin, I dus say, And took _his_ little ’oliday! “But them as was a-takin’ theirs (And some――it was their last), Was ’appy, singin’ of their songs: And, as she busted past, You might ’ave heard ’em, laughin’ say, ‘This ’ere’s a famous ’oliday!’ “So, when she come upon them points, As crammed as you could pack, And not a soul a-chaffin’ there Know’d death lay on the track,―― It did seem ’ard in that there way To end their ‘famous ’oliday!’ “And, oh! it was a ’orrid sight, When off the line she run, With dozens lying stiff and still, Who started full of fun! But, there――had Jim now not give way, They’d ’ad a famous ’oliday! “He got it precious ’ot for that!” The other stroked his chin. “Maybe. But it’s the Company,” Said he, “I’d like to skin! I’d let ’em all at Bot’ny Bay Just try _their_ famous ’oliday!” The pointsman faced his mate. Quoth he, “Where can your reck’ning be? Here’s parties pays a bob or two. And gets three hours o’ sea; And, _if they ain’t smashed up_, I say, That there’s a famous ’oliday.” “And, what’s to come,” the other asked, “Of scares now like this ’ere?” The pointsman smiled. “My mate,” he said, “_You_’re green, that’s pretty clear. Why, ‘what’s to come?’ Next year, I’ll lay, _Another famous oliday_!” _Punch_, September 25, 1880. ―――― A GLORIOUS VICTORY. It was a summer evening, Old Roger’s work was done, And he his fragrant honey-dew Was smoking in the sun, And by him sported, bright and fair, His little grandchild, Golden Hair. She saw her brother, Curly Head, Bring something hard and round Which he, upon the mantel-shelf, Beneath a shade, had found. She came to ask what he had found That was so hard, and smooth, and round. Old Roger took it from the boy Who stood expectant by, And then the old man told the tale―― (Fire kindled in his eye)―― “This is the Cricket-Ball,” said he, “That tells of a great Victory. “I prize it more than all I have, It’s worth can ne’er be told; ’Tis true ’tis only leather, but ’Tis more to me than gold! Go, place it back again,” said he,―― “It was a famous Victory.” “Please tell us what it is you mean.” Young Curly Head he cries; And little Golden Hair looks up With wonder-waiting eyes:―― “Yes, tell us, for we long to know The reason why you prize it so.” “It was the Colonists,” he said, Of now undying fame, Who met Eleven picked Englishmen And put them all to shame: For everybody said,” quoth he, “That ’twas a famous Victory. “The contest, at the Oval was―― The noted ground hard by―― ’Twas there that Spofforth smashed the stumps, And made the bails to fly; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous Victory. “Not even Grace, of matchless skill (No worthier in the land), The ‘Demon’s’ onslaughts could resist, His awful speed withstand; By lightning smit, as falls the oak, The wickets fell beneath his stroke! “And more than twenty thousand men, With bated breath, looked on―― The threatening rain deterred them not, Nor did the scorching sun; Their time and money gave to see Who’d gain the famous Victory. “And when at last the crisis came―― When _one_ must quickly yield―― When Peate, the famous Yorkshireman, His wicket failed to shield, All over was the splendid play―― The Englishmen had lost the day! “They say it was a wondrous sight, After the match was done, To see so many thousand men After the Victors run; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous Victory. “Great praise the ‘Demon’ Spofforth gained, His bowling was so rare.” “I think he must have frightened them,” Said little Golden Hair. “Well, well, my little girl,” quoth he, “It was a famous Victory!” “And everyone the ‘Demon’ cheered, So many low he laid”―――― “_But what could they be all about To let him?_” Curley said: “Why _that_――I cannot tell,” said he: “But ’twas a famous Victory!” _Punch_, September 16, 1882. ―――― A FAMOUS VICTORY. It was a spring-tide evening, When he who speaks of jams, And many more mysterious things, Sat reading telegrams; And, while he scanned them through and through, The British public read them too. And soon that public stared to see A column filled with blood, Which though set forth in plainest print, No mortal understood: They came to ask that statesman good What looked so red with human blood. The statesman took it from the crowd Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And heaved a worried sigh―― “’Tis some news-monger’s scrawl,” said he, “About the grand new victory.” “Now tell us what ’twas all about,” The British public cries, While in that good man’s face it looks With wonder-waiting eyes―― “Now tell us all about our war, And what we killed these Arabs for.” “It was we English,” out he cried, “Put Osman’s blacks to rout; What else can Liberals want to know Why else marched Graham out? And e’en the Tories own,” quoth he, “That ’twas a famous――victory.” “We thrashed the Arabs once at Teb―― I can’t say why ’twas so; For Tokar needed no relief, And Sinkat less you know: And Gordon promised t’other day, The Soudanese should have their way. “Oh, ’twas a glorious sight to see How great god Jingo rose, And at my bidding swept from life Whole hosts of gallant foes: How British soldiers dare and die With, or without a reason why, “They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won: For full four thousand bodies there Lay dead beneath the sun: But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. “Great praise my energy has gained, And laurels crown my head.” “Why, ’twas a downright massacre!” The simple public said. “Nay, nay, my friends: nay, nay,” said he “It was a famous victory!” “Famous, by――Jingo!” so he swore. Yet still they asked, perplext, “But what good comes of it at last? And what’s to follow next?” “_Why, that I cannot tell_,” said he: “_But――’twas a_ FAMOUS VICTORY!” _Clapham Free Press_, April 5, 1884. ―――― THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM (HOUSE). It was a winter evening, In dull November’s gloom, When J. B. Stone sat doing sums, In the club smoking-room; And by him Rowlands sat serene Blowing the fragrant nicotine. They heard a voice both shrill and loud Calling out “_Daily Mail_, Result in Central Birmingham!” Then turned a little pale; And Rowlands hoarsely whispered “Stone,” I――rather――think――the verdict’s known.” They sent the spacious serving man―― A ha’p’ny in his hand―― To fetch with tongs th’ accursed sheet, Which eagerly they scanned: A fearful thing there met their sight, “GREAT VICTORY FOR MR. BRIGHT!” Quoth Rowlands: “This looks very blue, Poor Churchill――what a sell! I think I’ll have a brandy hot,” And forthwith pulled the bell; While Stone sat still with stony stare, Gazing profoundly on the air. But soon he gave a sudden jerk, And pulled his pencil out, And figured over several sheets, Then raised a joyous shout: “Ah, ah, ’tis not so bad you see, We’ve won a virtual victory. “’Tis true that Bright is just ahead, By hundreds nine to ten, But I can show he should have won By just us much again: We’ve lower’d their proud majority, And that’s a virtual victory.” “Ahem!” said Rowlands, looking glum, “That doesn’t count, I fear, A win’s a win, and we must sing Political small beer. Your best arithmetic won’t score Twice two as anything but four.” “Cheer up, cheer up, my trusty friend.” Stone cheerily chirped out, “I’m rather good at ciphering, And know what I’m about: I say we ought to sing with glee For such a virtual victory: “Send off the news to Blenheim House That Marlborough may know, Despatch a score of ‘tannergrams’ To humble Highbury Joe; ’Twill make him shake with fear to see We’ve won a virtual victory. “Come, run with me to High Street quick, And show to the _Gazette_ How to display this joyful news In type triumphant set; How fine upon the bill ’twill be To read “Great Virtual Victory!” “But tell me,” Rowlands answered him, “What ’vantage we shall gain, When Bright will sit, and Bright will vote, While Churchill’s with the slain?” “Oh that,” quoth Stone, “Don’t trouble me, ’Tis such a virtual victory!” _Birmingham Daily Mail_, November, 1885. ―――― THE OLD GLADSTONITE AND HIS SON. A.D. CIRCA 1900. “Tell me, dear father, if the time When this poor paltry Island’s might, Was held enough to conquer Crime, And even Anarchy to fight; Explain to me how Gladstone’s acts―― So noble in themselves――yet made Our ruin and our fall two facts, And put our glory in the shade.” His explanation only ran, “He was a very grand old man.” “But father, dear, when all the dead And tortured loyalists who fell For deeming that what Gladstone said, Was true; and only when the yell Of Dynamiting Fenian crew Came on their ears, saw their reward, For so believing, surely you Don’t think ’twas right to steal their sword?” He murmured, as his tears began, “He was a very Grand Old Man.” “And England’s honour, credit, name, Her colonies, her army, fleet, All gone――her prestige turned to shame, Her altered battle cry ‘Retreat:’ Was not all this a biggish price To pay for keeping even him To talk, and make distinctions nice. And be so eloquent and dim?” He glared as only fathers can, “He was a very Grand Old Man.” “Father, I know we should be still While foes are taking all we prize; ’Tis Gladstone-good to think no ill Of murderers in moral guise; But, somehow, if our forbears had Just shut him up, I’d almost bet That Englishmen might now be glad, And England might be England yet.” Poor Father’s tears in buckets ran, “He was a very Grand Old Man.” DESART. The _Morning Post_, June 5, 1886. ――――:o:―――― THE JACKANAPE JOCK. (_From our Special Sporting Correspondent._) I. Great stir in the air, great stir on the lea, Stands, paddock and ring all noisy with glee, All backing the favourite, for none had a notion Except his sly owner, he’d been drugged with a potion. II. As the hour of two chimed forth from the clock, Out came the favourite with Jackanape Jock, As they swept round the corner, they were received with a yell, Cantering down in the open, both showed off so well. III. Even the starter of the Horsely stock Had lumped his little on Jackanape Jock; He mounted his steed, as the hand bell rang, Which signalled the time when his duties began. IV. Then, the rest of the field trotted down to the dell, They muster’d fifteen――all known very well; But none so cute at getting out of a block As the favourite bay and the Jackanape Jock. V. The sun in heaven shone bright and gay; All who’d any coin began to hedge or to lay; Bookmakers screamed their odds all around, Four to one, three to one, then two to one pound. VI. The bay with the Jackanape Jock was seen A dark little speck by the other fifteen; Sir Ralph took his glasses from round his neck And fixed his eyes on that dark little speck. VII. He felt the cheering power of spring, He’d all on the bay, slap down to his ring, It was wealth or ruin――nothing less―― But Sir Ralph felt certain of success. VIII. He watched the white flag brightly float, He watched the starter’s light covert coat, He saw the nags standing as firm as a rock, But the one which stood best was the bay and his jock. IX. The flag is lower’d――away they go, The start is fair――the pace not slow, The excitement is great――all gaze on the race, And even _their_ tongues are quiet for a space. X. Up by the dell, as if spurning the ground, Though straining each muscle, each gracefully bound; But from the tip of his tail to the end of each hock It looks like a win for the bay and his jock. XI. Sir Ralph he shouted and praised the bay, He fancied he’d got it all his own way; He began counting his gains, and hoarding his ore, And chuckled with glee at the thought of his store. XII. All of a sudden, the bay lessens his speed, And cease to take such a prominent lead; “He’s keeping him in for the finish,” says he, And he praised the jock as he had the gee. XIII. “The chap wants to show he’s well up to the course, And can win in a canter without tiring his horse; But I hope he won’t try and run it too fine, For even in racing you must draw the line.” XIV. Yet still the bay lags behind more and more, The ring and the stands make more noise than before; Says Sir Ralph, “If he means pulling the bay, I tell you beforehand, I’m d――d if I pay.” XV. Here they are――they have pass’d and the great race is run, The numbers go up and all have been done―― And nothing but swearing and cursing is heard, For the bay and his jock came in a bad third. XVI. Sir Ralph he swore and tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair; He curst the bay; he curst the jock; And he curst his owner like one o’clock. XVII. But before he departs from the scene of the tale, To catch the first trans-Atlantic mail, He mutters this moral, at the thought of his losses “Mind you don’t go and put your crust in racehorses.” From _Cribblings from the Poets_, by Hugh Cayley. (Jones and Piggott, 16, Trinity Street, Cambridge, 1883.) [Illustration] PARODIES OF SOUTHEY’S EARLY POLITICAL POEMS. In order to explain the parodies of Southey’s political poems, it is necessary to refer to the peculiar opinions he held, and the widely varying theories he advanced, at two different periods of his life. In Southey’s youth his friends had wished him to enter the English Church, but he, in addition to holding strong republican views, had also imbibed Socinian principles. Feeling, therefore, that he could neither conscientiously receive holy orders, nor remain happily under a purely monarchical government, he decided upon resigning both his college and his country. He enlisted his two bosom friends, Lovell and Coleridge, in his projects, and, proceeding to Bristol, there held a consultation as to the best mode of securing the liberties of the human race in future, from the designs and ambition of political rulers. The system agreed upon was that of a Pantisocracy, or society wherein all things should be in common; and the spot fixed on as the citadel of future Freedom was on the banks of the river Susquehana, in North America. But the poverty of the three friends prevented them from putting the scheme into execution, and procuring, as they had fondly hoped, universal liberty and equality for the entire human race. Notwithstanding this disappointment Southey’s enthusiasm in the cause of republicanism was kindled even higher than before; and, in his “Wat Tyler,” published in 1795, he advocated the principle of universal liberty and equality, with a fervour not exceeded by any writer of that agitated period. This vehemence, he lived to regret,――whether the calmer judgment of maturer years condemned the errors of those that were past,――or whether self-interest was the influencing motive for a sudden and total change of political sentiment, it is not now possible to ascertain. So complete was his change of sentiment that he employed the most active measures for the suppression of the work itself: he destroyed all the unsold copies, bought up many of those that had been distributed, and exhibited the plainest demonstration of an abandonment of his early projects and principles. Carlisle, and others, who did not hesitate to expose themselves to legal penalties, provided they could hold up a political deserter to public scorn, had the boldness to republish “Wat Tyler” without Mr. Southey’s permission. An injunction was instantly applied for by the indignant author, but Lord Eldon refused to grant this protection, on the plea that “a person cannot recover damages upon a work which in its nature was calculated to do injury to the public.” This decision encouraged the vendors of the poem, and not less than 60,000 copies are supposed to have been sold during the excitement it created. And such passages as the following were extracted from it, and widely quoted by the opposition journals:―― “My brethren, these are truths, and weighty ones. Ye are all equal: Nature made ye so, Equality is your birth-right;――when I gaze On the proud palace, and behold one man In the blood-purpled robes of royalty, Feasting at ease, and lording over millions; Then turn me to the hut of poverty, And see the wretched labourer, worn with toil, Divide his scanty morsel with his infants; I sicken, and, indignant at the sight, Blush for the patience of humanity.” Nor had Southey the consolation of public sympathy, which indeed is seldom shown to such political apostates. Henceforward Southey cast off his revolutionary opinions, and all his future writings were marked by an intolerant attachment to church and state, and servile adulation of the Royal Family. He soon reaped the reward of his apostacy, he was appointed secretary to Mr. Corry, Chancellor of the Exchequer for Ireland, with a salary of £350 a year, and very light duties. In 1807, the government conferred a pension of £200 a year upon him, and in 1813, on the death of Henry James Pye, he was appointed Poet Laureate. In this capacity he did not compose the usual Birthday odes, and New Year’s Day odes, as had been done by his predecessors, but he produced various courtly poems on certain important events. These appeared at irregular intervals, and there are only three which need be specially alluded to, namely, _Carmina Aulica_, written in 1814, on the arrival of the allied sovereigns in England; _Carmen Triumphale_ for the commencement of the year 1814; and _Carmen Nuptiale_, the Lay of the Laureate on the marriage of the Princess Charlotte. But last, and worst of all, was _The Vision of Judgment_, written on the death of George III, in 1820. These poems were all deeply tinged with Southey’s political prejudices, and contained the most bitter sentiments towards all who differed from his views; they provoked much animosity and ridicule at the time, and would soon have passed into utter oblivion, but for the satires and parodies they gave rise to. Of these Lord Byron’s _Vision of Judgment_ was, of course, the most powerful, in it the Laureate received a mercilessly witty castigation, which even his admirers admitted to be not altogether unmerited, as he had gone out of his way to attack those who had done him no wrong. The mere fact of Southey’s complete change of opinions on political and social affairs would not, in itself, have been sufficient to account for the violence of the attacks to which he was subjected. It was not only that he turned from being an ardent Republican and a Communist, to a staunch Royalist and supporter of the Aristocratic form of government, but the change came at a time when party feeling ran very high, when the great body of the people were suffering sore distress, and when his own prospects, pecuniary and social, were greatly benefitted by deserting what was then known as the popular cause. Further, he at once proceeded with all the ardour of a pervert to violently attack all who held similar views to those he had but so lately upheld, and advised that the most severely repressive measures should betaken against them, which caused Byron to address him thus, in the opening lines of _Don Juan_: Bob Southey! you’re a poet――Poet-Laureate, And representative of all the race; Although ’tis true that you turned out a Tory at Last,――yours has lately been a common case; And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at? With all the Lakers, in and out of place? A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye Like “four and twenty blackbirds in a pye; Which pye being open’d they began to sing” (This old song and new simile holds good). “A dainty dish to set before the King” Or Regent, who admires such kind of food,―― And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, But like a hawk encumber’d with his hood,―― Explaining metaphysics to the nation―― I wish he would explain his explanation. You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know, At being disappointed in your wish To supersede all warblers here below, And be the only blackbird in the dish; And then you overstrain yourself, or so, And tumble downward like the flying fish Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry Bob! I would not imitate the petty thought Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, For all the glory your conversion brought, Since gold alone should not have been its price. You have your salary was’t for that you wrought? And Wordsworth has his place in the excise. You’re shabby fellows――true――but poets still, And duly seated on the immortal hill. Notwithstanding all the attacks aimed at him, Southey continued to write in the interest of his patrons, and retained the office of Poet Laureate until his death in 1843, when it was conferred upon William Wordsworth, who already held a lucrative government appointment. For more complete details of the duties and emoluments connected with the post of Poet Laureate, readers may refer to my little history of the Poets Laureate of England. The most witty and amusing attacks of Southey’s early republican poems proceeded from the pen of George Canning who started the _Anti-Jacobin Review_, a series of weekly papers, the avowed object of which was to expose the doctrines of the French Revolution, and to ridicule the advocates of that event, and the friends of peace and parliamentary reform. The editor was William Gifford, author of the _Baviad and Mæviad_, and John Hookham Frere, Lord Clare, and Lord Mornington, were amongst the contributors. Their purpose was to disparage and blacken their adversaries, and they spared no means in the attempt. Their most distinguished countrymen, whose only fault was their being opposed to the government, were treated with no more respect than their foreign adversaries, and were held up to public execration as traitors, blasphemers, and debauchees. So alarmed, however, became some of the more moderate supporters of the ministry at the violence of the language employed, that Mr. Pitt was induced to interfere, and after an existence of eight months, the _Anti-Jacobin_ (in its original form) ceased to exist. The Poetry which appeared in the _Anti-Jacobi_n has been frequently reprinted, but the prose contents are now generally forgotten. The best of the poetry was contributed by George Canning, with some assistance from John Hookham Frere, and whilst ridiculing the utopian views of Southey, and his friends, with much point and spirit, it differed from the prose articles of the _Anti-Jacobin_ in that it contained fewer insulting personal allusions, and was generally written in a style of good humoured banter. It was in November, 1797, that the first parody on Southey appeared, founded upon the following INSCRIPTION. _For the Apartment in Chepstow Castle, where Henry Marten, the Regicide, was imprisoned Thirty Years._ For thirty years secluded from mankind Here Marten linger’d. Often have these walls Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread He paced around his prison; not to him Did Nature’s fair varieties exist, He never saw the sun’s delightful beams, Save when through yon high bars he pour’d a sad And broken splendour. Dost thou ask his crime? He had REBELL’D AGAINST THE KING, AND SAT IN JUDGMENT ON HIM; for his ardent mind Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth, And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such As Plato loved; such as with holy zeal Our Milton worshipp’d. Blessed hopes! Awhile From man withheld, even to the latter days When Christ shall come, and all things be fulfill’d! ROBERT SOUTHEY. INSCRIPTION. _For the Door of the Cell in Newgate where Mrs. Brownrigg, the ’Prentice-cide, was confined previous to her Execution._ For one long term, or ere her trial came, Here BROWNRIGG linger’d. Often have these cells Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice She scream’d for fresh Geneva. Not to her Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street. St. Giles, its fair varieties expand; Till at the last in slow-drawn cart she went To execution. Dost thou ask her crime? SHE WHIPPED TWO FEMALE ’PRENTICES TO DEATH, AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mind, Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes! Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog The little Spartans; such as erst chastised Our Milton when at college. For this act Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! but time shall come When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal’d! In the next number of the _Anti-Jacobin_ there was an article on JACOBIN POETRY, in which it was stated that “one of the most universally recognised principles in the Jacobin creed was that the truly benevolent mind should consider only the _severity of the punishment inflicted by human law_s without any reference to the _malignity of the crime_. It remained only to fit it with a poetical dress, which had been attempted in the inscription for Chepstow Castle, and which (we flatter ourselves), was accomplished in that for Mrs. Brownrigg’s cell.” “Another principle, no less devoutly entertained, and no less sedulously administered, is the _natural and eternal warfare of the Poor and the Rich_.” “This principle is treated at large by many authors, we trace it particularly in a poem by the same author from whom we borrowed our former illustration of the Jacobin doctrine of crimes and punishments. In this poem, the pathos of the matter is not a little relieved by the absurdity of the metre. The learned reader will perceive that the metre is sapphic, and affords a fine opportunity for his SCANNING and PROVING, if he has not forgotten them”:―― THE WIDOW. Cold was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell; Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked; When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore. Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections; Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom: She had no home, the world was all before her, She had no shelter. Fast o’er the heath a chariot rattled by her: “Pity me!” feebly cried the poor night wanderer. “Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger Here I should perish. “Once I had friends――but they have all forsook me! Once I had parents――they are now in heaven! I had a home once――I had once a husband―― Pity me, strangers! “I had a home once――I had once a husband―― I am a widow, poor and broken-hearted!” Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining; On drove the chariot. Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her; She heard a horseman: “Pity me!” she groaned out, Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining; On went the horseman. Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold and hunger, Down sunk the wanderer: sleep had seized her senses. There did the traveller find her in the morning God had released her. ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1796. “We proceed to give our imitation, which is of the _Amœbœan_ or Collocutory kind”:―― IMITATION. SAPPHICS. THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY, AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER.[68] _Friend of Humanity._ “Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order―― Bleak blows the blast;――your hat has got a hole in’t, So have your breeches! “Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day, ‘Knives and Scissars to grind O!’ “Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney? “Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit? “(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story.” _Knife-Grinder._ “Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers. This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle. “Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish- -stocks for a vagrant. “I should be glad to drink your Honour’s health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir.” _Friend of Humanity._ “_I_ give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn’d first―― Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance―― Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!” [_Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy._] This is generally admitted to be the best parody in the _Anti-Jacobin_, and has itself been frequently imitated. A few of the most interesting examples may be here quoted. ―――― In _John Bull_ (a London newspaper) for March 25, 1827, there was a parody on the subject of Roman Catholic emancipation, a topic then engaging much attention, although the bill on the subject was not passed until 1829. THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY, AND THE BRICKLAYER’S LABOURER. _Friend of Humanity._ Poor Roman Catholic! ere you mount the ladde Unfold to me your melancholy story: Soil’d is your neckcloth, and your whole apparel Ragged and rusty. Ah! Roman Catholic! all the proud Protestants who to churches sometimes go on Sunday Think you an ass for carrying the hod of POPE DELLA GENGA. Once your clothes were new――and how came they shabby? Did the Home Minister throw dirt upon you? Or did His Honour the Master of the Rolls? or Chancellor ELDON? Did Mr. PEEL, for killing of his game? or Did His Honour, for denying of the _veto_? Or JOHN LORD ELDON, because you don’t like a Chancery lawsuit? (Ought not O’CONNELL and SHIEL to be M.P.’s?) Tell, without reserve, each of your privations; Ready is my tongue the nation to rouse to Render you justice. _Bricklayer’s Labourer_:―― Justice! Privation!――what is it you mean, Sir? Little do I know of our Lord the POPE, Sir,―― Father SHANGOLDEN gives me absolution Often enough, Sir. Secrets there are,――and those I shall not tell ye―― Captain ROCK and I can keep our own counsel; But my clothes were spoiled long before I came here Over from Ireland. Give me some whiskey――_that_ is all I want now―― That makes me happy, for indeed I do not Either for SHIEL or O’CONNELL, or the _vato_ Care a potato! _Friend of Humanity._ I give thee whiskey――I will see thee burnt first. Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance; Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast! [_Kicks the Bricklayer’s Labourer, overturns his hod of mortar and exit in a transport of liberal enthusiasm, and universal toleration._] ―――― SAPPHICS OF THE CABSTAND. _Friend of Self-Government._ Seedy cab-driver, whither art thou going? Sad is thy fate――reduced to law and order, Local Self-Government yielding to the grip of Centralisation. Victim of FITZROY! little think the M.P.’s, Lording it o’er cabs, ’bus, lodging-house and graveyard, Of the good times when every Anglo-Saxon’s House was his castle. Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. CHADWICK―― Underground foe to the British Constitution―― Or my LORD SHAFTESBURY, put up MR. FITZROY Thus to assail you? Was it the growth of Continental notions, Or was it the Metropolitan police force Prompted this blow at _Laissez-faire_, that free and Easiest of Doctrines? Have you not read MR TOULMIN SMITH’S great work on Centralisation? If you haven’t, buy it; Meanwhile, I should be glad at once to hear your View on the subject. _Cab-driver._ View on the subjeck? Jiggered if I’ve got one; Only I wants no centrylisin’, I don’t―― Which I suppose it’s a crusher standin’ sentry Hover a cabstand, Whereby if we gives e’er a word o’ cheek to Parties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin’ And them there blessed beaks is down upon us Dead as an ’ammer. As for MR. TOULMIN SMITH, can’t say as I knows him, But as you talks so werry like a gem’man, Perhaps you’re a goin’ in ’ansome style to stand a Shillin’ a mile, sir. _Friend of Self-Government._ I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first―― Sixpence a mile or drive me straight to Bow Street, Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty, Insolent rascal! _Punch_, July 30, 1853. ―――― LAY OF THE PROCTOR. “Tell me, O Proctor, whither art thou going? Thus with thy bull-dogs putting the pace on, Thick is the rain, your bands will get spoilt, sir So will your velvet. Tell me now frankly what made you turn Proctor, Was there a lady somewhere in the case, sir, Was it from duty, or is true you’re A misanthrope, sir? Did you want coin to help you to marry, Or did you feel it a duty to your College, Or was it simply from a love of mischief That you turned Proctor? If ’twas the first, then I will gladly tell you My name and College, and pay you the five shillings, Nay more, I don’t mind giving you a trifle To help you on, sir.” “Trifle!! I only hope that you’re drunk, sir, Openly to insult a Proctor daring Thus in the streets. If you are not tipsy You’ll be sent down, sir. Are you aware, sir, whom you’re addressing? One who can fine you, send you down, or gate you, Once more I ask you, sir, _will_ you tell me Your name and College?” “My name and College? I’ll see thee d――d first, Wretch, with no sense of gentlemanly feeling, Sordid, unholy, pitiless, degraded, Brute of a Proctor.” (_Trips up the Proctor, knocks down Bull-dogs, and exit in transports of joy._) WILL SCARLET. From _The Shotover Papers, or Echoes from Oxford_, May 2, 1874. ―――― INTERVIEWED. SCENE――_A Sea Port. Friend of Humanity (Mr. P * * * h) meeting Seafaring Person._ _Friend of Humanity_ (_loq._)―― Stranger, why so deeply blushing? Why your hat your temples crushing? Why strange oaths so freely gushing? Why inclined to so much lushing? Why your way so madly pushing? And from haunts of seaman rushing, Through wet streets insanely slushing, Fretting, fuming, “tish”-ing, “tush”-ing? _Seafaring Person._ ’Cos it’s me as run the Russian Emperor aground at Flushing! [_They weep together._ _Punch_, May 23, 1874. ―――― THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY. “Russicos odi, puer, apparatus” _Horace_ (_latest edition._) FRIEND OF HUMANITY. “Mr. John Bull! What ever are you doing? Turkey is crush’d, the East is out of order; War-trumpets blow; your interests are threaten’d, So is your honour! “Mr. John Bull! how little thought the great ones, Who are supposed to settle European Questions, that you would ever be content to Play second fiddle! “Tell me, John Bull, have you no human feeling? Won’t you assist these luckless lambs of Moslems? Will you sit still and see the Russians enter Constantinople? “Can you allow your foe of former days thus All undisturbed to carry on his old game? Can you behold his arrogance, and yet not Give him a thrashing? “Have you not read the Special Correspondents’ Shocking accounts of Muscovite aggressions? Will you not make a spirited retort?――I Pause for an answer.” JOHN BULL. “Answer! good gracious! I have none to give, sir! Only, I know that many papers, and the Stock Exchange too, occasionally spread ri- -diculous rumours. “Often I’m told the wily tricks of Russia Here or there put my interests in danger: Still, they’re untouch’d, whilst quietly I keep my Weather-eye open. “I shall be glad to fight for British honour, When it’s attack’d, and you of course will help me; But, for my part, I never like to mix it With Politics, sir.” FRIEND OF HUMANITY. “I come and help thee! I will see thee d―――― first―― Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance; Baffled, effete, humiliated, sordid, Spiritless Shopman!” [_Wisely refrains from kicking Mr. J. B., and exit in a transport of martial enthusiasm and impartial philanthropy_.] _Funny Folks_, March 30, 1878. ―――― THE FRIEND OF AGRICULTURE, AND THE NEEDY NEW VOTER. A contribution to modern Anti-Jacobinism. (_Imitated from the celebrated Sapphics of Canning and Frere_.) FRIEND OF AGRICULTURE. NEEDY New Voter! Whither are you wending? Bad are the times, and hard upon _your_ order. Prices fall fast;――your stomach feels a vacuum, So does your pocket! Nubbly-knee’d rustic! little know the proud ones, Who at their button flaunt the expensive orchid, What dreary work ’tis delving all your days, and Ending a pauper. Tell me, Giles Joskin, whom your vote inclines to. Is ’t the rich Rad, who only aims to use you? Or the kind Squire? or Parson of the Parish―― Lavish of blankets? Is it sly Joe, who’s playing his own game, or Arch-diddler Arch? Are you the dupe of “ransom” Or roguish land-schemes, baited with that bogus Cow and Three Acres? (Have you read _Popular Government_, by Sir R. Maine?) Tears of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Tell _me_ your tale; turn up those Rads, and trust the Pitiful Tory. NEEDY NEW VOTER. Tory? Lor’ bless ye, _he_ has proved a sell, Sir, What hath he done for I, or for the farmer? This poor old hat and breeches, yon bare acres, Show _him_ a diddle. Promised Protection? Boh! Can’t take _me_ in so. Cow and Three Acres; That’s a Tory scare-crow; But there _be_ some small hopes in altered land-laws And small allotments. I should be glad to think yer honour loved us; _Might_, if ye’d been the first to gi’ us the Vote now. But _do ut des_,[69] as Bizzy puts it; _that_ is My politics, Sir, FRIEND OF AGRICULTURE. Give _thee_ the Vote? I wish we’d seen thee starve first. Wretch! whom no thought but gain can move to gratitude; Sordid, uncultured, Socialistic, stupid Radical cat’s-paw! (_Kicks the New Voter, compares him unfavourably with the intelligent Conservative W